


A Clash of Vows

by EndDragon



Series: A Series of Broken Promises [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon whether its him or not is actually dead. He will be substituted for a Blackfyre, Begins same time period as Game of Thrones, F/M, Jon Snow is the bastard of Lyanna and Rhaegar, Liberty is taken with Jon Connington's Character, Rhaegar doesn't know, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-10 19:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndDragon/pseuds/EndDragon
Summary: Jon Snow is raised in Winterfell, his life to be dedicated as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Yet, the plan to take the black and make the vow gets put into question when the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his young sister attend the wedding of his brother, Robb and Roslin Frey.Rhaegar Targaryen beat Robert at the Trident. Believes his child with Lyanna to be dead.(I'll work on a better summary, just trying not to give anything away early. A few chapters in I will edit this.)





	1. Wolves Before a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> Okay well, let me first start by saying that as this is an alternate universe in which Rhaegar survives the Trident and becomes King, naturally things will have been different with him as King instead of Robert. I flirted writing a recap sentence to try and explain what happened since the Trident till now, but it just got grotesquely out of hand. So I decided to make this a series, with a side story acting as a prelude to this that will be updated alongside this. The Prelude should be about 8 chapters in total, 6 during and post trident, then 2 chapter's during the Greyjoy Rebellion. I figure with everything I need to convey, those 8 chapters should do it. Most will be from Rhaegar and Ned Stark's POV. There will be some Rhaegar and young Jon bonding moments in the latter chapters.
> 
> That said, this a Dany and Jon based fic, that will be a slow burn. But I hope to be interesting. Thank you all!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Message comes to Winterfell of the King's intent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As you are well aware I am sure, I do not own this work or any material within it as it is the property of the genius that is George R.R. Martin and its media developers HBO.

* * *

_ **A Clash of Vows** _

_ **A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter One: Wolves Before a Wedding**

* * *

**Jon I**

* * *

" _Rhaegar, Jon!_ The Dragon of the Trident, can you believe it? He's going to come, he's going to be at Robb's wedding," Arya gushed as she ran up to him giddily, bouncing up and down with her hands flailing against him.

"Aye, I hear you, pipe down there, don't let father overhear you being ecstatic for the King, don't forget the Black Stag and him were the best of mates back then," advised Jon, catching his sister by her upper arms, willing her to calm down. "Who told you the King's going to be there?"

"I overheard father and Maester Luwin talking about it," supplied Arya nonchalantly.

"You shouldn't be eavesdropping," chided Jon while Arya rolled her eyes with a flourish.

"But Jon, can't you imagine it, remember all the tales? Rhaegar facing off against Robert Baratheon with Blackfyre in hand," swooned Arya dreamily. "A real living, breathing Targaryen legend, just like Aegon and his sister-wives!"

His eyes rolled with a smile as he ruffled Arya's dark hair. "He didn't fight with Blackfyre, that sword was lost years before the rebellion happened, also, Aegon and his wives had dragons. The King is just as regular a Targaryen as his Mad Father was, they're not similar in the least, nor is the King a _legend_."

"Who says Rhaegar didn't fight with Blackfyre?" Demanded Arya.

"It's in the books, you know the stories, ask Old Nan or Maester Luwin if you don't believe me," he answered simply, walking by his sister to a rack of dull-edged swords neatly lined on the side of the courtyard.

"Old Nan doesn't know everything," pressed Arya, pursuing her brother as he lifted a sword up, feeling its weight in his palm and giving it a few swipes through the air.

"Assuming she's been living since the age of heroes, I'd say she knows a thing or two about House Targaryen and their Valyrian swords," returned Jon, a smirk gracing his long face as he reached for a chest protector of thatched wood hanging from a splintered post, fitting it on over his head before striding out to the center of the courtyard where Rodrik Cassel and his nephew Jory stood in the company of Robb and Theon Greyjoy.

"'Bout time you showed up, Snow, I was starting to think you tucked tail," jided Robb jokingly, he like Jon wore a thatched chest plate knotted together by string and planked wood. A dull sparring sword in hand.

"Only in your dreams I'd tuck tail from you, Stark," countered Jon, he turned to Arya and gave her a wink. "Wish me well."

"Like you need it," she replied with a laugh, settling in atop a crate, watching intently as he took a stance in the middle of the training yard.

"Brought the little Lady to squire for you, eh Snow? Mayhaps you've a better chance of besting Robb if you let her fight in your stead," called Theon, the boy barely a few namedays older than Jon rested his weight on his longbow as he laughed at his own jest.

Grumbling beneath his breath, Jon took up a stance, his two hands gripping the handle tightly as Robb walked forward in confidence to meet him, his brothers own blade held loosely in one hand at his side.

"Alright lads, you know the rules, avoid the head and first one to cry mercy or is unable to continue on, loses, simple as that," stated Rodrik, the man's white whiskers bristling as a swift breeze swept over the courtyard. "And mind your bleeding footwork, I trained you to fight like men, not a pair of babe's swinging sticks!"

Robb grinned as he brought his sparring sword to both hands, taking half a step forward, swinging lazily at Jon who blocked with ease.

"Shouldn't it be me that takes it lightly on you? You don't want that bride of yours seeing you all bruised up now do you?" Challenged Jon, knocking away another lazy swing by Robb.

"That would require you to land a hit on me first," shot Robb, a smirk stretching over his visage as he sidestepped a lunge by Jon.

"Is this a sparring match or a taunting match, swing you swines!" Called Rodrik gruffly.

"Quite right, Ser Rodrik," replied Robb, he turned to Jon with a curt nod. "What do you say, Jon, _for old times sake?_ "

"For old times sake," he agreed, readjusting his stance, he prepared to rush forward. Both sharing a laugh before engaging one another, each taking what was likely to be their last sparring session seriously.

* * *

**Eddard I**

* * *

Eddard watched as Catelyn strung another thread through the blanket she knitted, the message in his hand felt heavy, its written word bearing news he'd not been hoping to hear. Whether the King had chosen to complicate the wedding with intent or had merely done so by mishap, he couldn't discern, all he knew was that to tell his wife would be to add oil to an open flame, but in the effort of being honest with her, or as honest as he could, he knew he had to divulge the King's message.

"You've made quite the progress, twas just a ball of yarn a moon ago," he announced at last, watching as she looked up, noticing his presence with a thin smile.

"When did you enter?" She questioned, laying her needles down.

"Just now. I should have announced myself, but I couldn't help watching you for a few moments," answered Eddard, he crossed the chamber floor so he could stand before her, his gaze lingering on her creation. "You've fine needlework, Cat'."

Catelyn smiled. "When you have had enough practice as I have, needlework comes easy. Though I take it you've not come here looking to put down the sword and take up the knitting needle with me, have you, dear husband?"

"Nay, I've not the skillset for it," he commented lightly, a chuckle escaping him. "In truth, I've come seeking a word with you."

Wearily, Catelyn put her sewn blanket and needles to the small round table at her side. "Words in regards to?"

"Where to begin," he mumbled, his fingers running over the parchment in his palm. "We received a raven from the capital this morning."

He noticed as she stiffened immediately, knowing just as he that they had only received two ravens from the capital since Rhaegar took the throne, the first, a summons demanding fealty, the second a call to war against Balon Greyjoy and his ill-fated rebellion.

"From the King?" She had to ask.

"Aye," he confirmed, grudgingly offering the message out for her to take.

Taking hold, Catelyn unraveled the paper, her eyes skimming over the text, her lips pursed by the time she finished. "The man forces us to accept this marriage for our son and has the audacity to attend it, the Gods be cruel."

Eddard sighed. "He'll be bringing his sister with him and a damned tourney."

"Lord Walder must've arranged this, the old weasel must be eager to charge his toll on those having to use that ruddy bridge of his." Scowled Catelyn. "A tourney... I can't fathom the reason for it."

"The King's going to be putting up the prize winnings for it, the expense is entirely his at no cost to us, but it'll extend our stay at the Twins a few more days than we had anticipated," he said grimly.

Catelyn gave a curt nod. "It's not the first time we've had to bear the King's presence for a short time."

Eddard was relieved, having half expected his wife to launch into a tirade at the news he brought, yet she stayed composed, but that wasn't to be for long, knowing the other bit of news he hoped to break to her.

"I've more to speak," he announced again, drawing her focus, eyes narrowed inquisitively.

"More?"

"It's about Jon," provided Eddard, loathing how she flinched at the boy's name as if having been struck.

"What about the bastard?" She questioned in return.

"I spoke with Robb this morning, he's determined to have Jon with him at his wedding, and in honesty, I find no fault in it," informed Eddard, bracing himself for the rage he knew she was to release.

"I forbid it!" Snapped Catelyn, her voice shrill as she leaped from her seat and jabbed a finger to Eddard's chest. "Having my son marry a Frey is an embarrassment in itself. To have my husband's bastard there on display for my father's bannermen is a shame I cannot bear!"

Eddard hung his head. "The boy is apart of this family, Cat', in all the years he's been here, I've made exceptions on your behalf. The boy didn't eat at the head table, he wasn't to feast with Lord's who visited, and he's held the name, Snow. Exceptions that were slights to him, but slights he bore all the same, without so much as a whinge. I'll not rob the boy of attending his brother's wedding day."

" _Half-brother_ , by your blood and some _Dornish whore,_ " Catelyn spat, she turned from her husband, shoulders vibrating in anger. "I swear to you Ned Stark, if you permit your bastard to come it shall cause a rift between us, one so large I do not presume to see it mended."

"You will not speak ill of his mother," growled Eddard, his head snapping up, a glimmer in his eyes Catelyn hadn't seen since the day she arrived at Winterfell to find him and the bastard babe in his arms. "Jon is coming, and I'll say no more on the topic."

Catelyn moved to protest, but Eddard was already sweeping from their quarters, pushing past the doors to the open hallway and a leisurely Benjen Stark, black of hair and in a cloak and set of boiled leathers to match, his younger brother coming at him with open arms. The two men greeting one another in a firm hug, exchanging a few stiff pats to the others back, they broke from one another grinning, albeit Eddard's was a bit forced from having had a conversation with his wife.

"Ben? When did you arrive? Your last raven gave the impression you weren't able to attend," said Eddard, hands still on his brother's shoulders.

Benjen shrugged. "Was supposed to be out ranging till all that mess with Yohn Royce's little runt Waymar happened. The Old Bear's suspended any excursions beyond the Wall till an inquiry's been carried out, I was told you beheaded the deserter who was apart of Royce's ranging party? The man didn't happen to say anything of interest before you took his head, did he?"

"Not anything a man of sane mind would believe," answered Eddard tiredly, he met Benjen's gaze. "Though I'll say this, the man didn't seem the usual type of deserter... He had a look in his eye, a fear in them I've naught seen in the eye of a man before. He was rambling, incoherent things, things about the Others, Gods he was terrified, Ben'."

"His name was Gared," divulged Benjen. "He was a good brother, the man lost both his ears and even more extremities to the cold over the years, makes you wonder just how he had the courage to have served the Watch as long as he did. Though I suppose every man has his breaking point."

Eddard could only agree with a stiff, uncomfortable nod. He let his hands drop from Benjen's shoulders. "Is the deserter the only reason you've come home?"

"The Lord Commander asked if I'd inquire when I saw you, I assured him I would of course," replied Benjen lightly, he reached out and gave a firm pat to his elder brother's arm, a smile twisting at his chapped lips. "Of course I've my own reasons to have some time away from the Wall, I'd like to have a few pints of ale and see that rooster chested lad of yours marry the Frey lass, what's her name again?"

"Its been some time since I read the letter, Walder sent, but if I recall, its Roslin," he answered.

"If you recall? The lass is to be your Good-daughter in a fortnight, and you can't recall her name? You best figure it out quick before Robb ends up marrying the wrong girl," joked Benjen, enjoying how his brother's brow furrowed together. "Ah, lighten up, Ned'. It's a wedding, not the end of the world. Come now, it's Robb that should be shitting his breeches with nerves, not you. Speaking 'bout the lad, how's he faring with the whole thing?"

"He won't say it, but I can tell he's nervous, I know cause I looked the same way after agreeing to Hoster Tully to marry, Cat'. I've caught him in the Godswood quite oft the last few days, overheard him praying before the heart tree at one point, the boy fears the Frey girl will be some hideous thing," commented Eddard, he brought a hand to his brother's back and guided him down the hallway to an oak door that would lead them out.

Benjen gave an amused snort as he pulled the door open, leading them out onto the walkways overlooking Winterfell's courtyard. "Robb's got good reason to fret, the Frey's don't carry a reputation for handsome looks last I heard. If I were the lad I'd have strapped a saddle on the first horse I came upon and rode as far away from the Twins as I could."

Stepping up to the banister, Eddard shook his head, amused. "Is that why you took the black as soon as I came back with word the King had arranged for his betrothal, didn't care to stick around to see who he'd have arranged for you?"

"I'd be lying if it didn't help make taking the black a decision easier than it was," answered Benjen lightly, he turned from the practice yard below to fix Eddard with a set of hard, serious eyes. "Has Jon spoken to you about the Watch yet?"

He shook his head. " _The Watch?_ He's not said a word to me."

"Mayhaps it's not my place to say, but he's been sending me ravens, from what I gather, he seems intent on taking the oath," divulged Benjen.

 _"Intent?"_ Asked Eddard, he knew Jon had expressed an interest in the Night's Watch, but he never presumed the boy to have ever joined.

Sighing, Benjen directed a hand down to Jon as the dark haired teen ducked a wide thrown swing by Robb. "Don't be a fool, Ned, look at him. What's here for him? A half-brother who'll be starting a family soon of his own, there'll not be much time for sparring with Jon after that, and in turn, Jon will do what, practice his needlework with Sansa and Arya? Play with Bran and Rickon? The lad needs a purpose in his life, he needs direction. He can't be the bastard of Winterfell his whole life."

Eddard's grip tightened along the banister railing, his knuckles turning white. His eyes tracing Jon's every movement as he clashed his dull blade against Robb's. "So you support this?"

"I _support_ Jon, he's a bit young for a Night's Watchmen, I admit, but the lads of Stark stock, that's worth at least five or six criminals in black at the Wall," replied Benjen surely. "I'd give him the wedding and the tourney to see what life outside these walls is like, and if he's just as sure about joining the Watch after that, he can ride with me back to Castle Black."

"Gods Ben, he's ten-and-five" grumbled Eddard, he couldn't help but think a life for Jon cloaked in black and hunting Wildling's wasn't what Lyanna had had in mind for him, but neither could he deny there were opportunities for Jon at the Wall, hell, the boy could even rise to be a Commander of a keep or the Lord Commander himself even given time.

"Nearly ten-and-six," poìnted out Benjen.

"Ten-and-six," repeated Eddard, age was but a number, for when he closed his eyes, he could vividly remember carrying the boy down the outer steps of the Dornish tower, his wails as he laid in a puddle of blood next to Lyanna. "If he does decide to go, tell me you'll keep an eye on him?"

"I'll keep two eyes on him, I'll teach the lad all I know, he won't be going in there like some fresh recruit, you can count on that, Ned," vowed Benjen, he clapped his brother's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Tell me, and be honest about it, do you ever regret it?" Asked Eddard suddenly, looking to Benjen. "Taking the black?"

Benjen's lip thinned in thought. "There's been times I've thought of different paths that I may have taken. But I remember the day I took the oath, I respect those words. Till the day I die, I shall be the shield that guards the realm."

"What of Jon, will he feel the same?" He inquired, almost unsure if whether or not to permit the boy taking the black, it surely wasn't what Lyanna would have wanted for him, would she?.

"He's your son, he's a Stark by blood," returned Benjen. "Jon will be hated when he arrives, just as I was when the lowborn tested me in the training yard for the first time... But he'll survive it, be stronger for it even, he'll not get an opportunity elsewhere like he will at the Wall, it doesn't matter if you're a bastard or the King himself, every mans equal there, each one earning his position off merit."

He nodded, trusting his brother's opinion. Grudgingly having to admit to himself that Jon becoming a Night's Watchmen might be the best possible course for him, he had raised Jon as his own, taking every precaution to keep him safe as Lyanna made him promise, though sometimes he wondered if he'd taken that promise to far, the boy could be the next King was he not the bastard byproduct of the current King's insatiable desire for his sister all those years ago. Could he truly allow Lya's son to take the black? "I don't know, Ben'. I'll need to think on it."

Benjen eyed him in a peculiar fashion the elder Stark was unprepared for. "Think on it? How are you even hesitant in allowing, Jon, to join? You know it the best option out there for him."

"I'm not against it," professed Eddard adamantly. "I just want what's best for him is all, he deserves better than what I've been capable of giving him."

Sighing aloud, Benjen knew his brother spoke of his good-sister's inability to accept the bastard. "What're you blabbering on about, you've done right by him throughout the years, there's no questioning that, anyone who'd doubt it is a damned fool."

With a stern nod, Eddard looked out to the training yard as Jon butted Robb in the gutt with the square pommel of his practice sword. His heir falling backwards to the training yard ground with a groan, hand clutching his stomach.

"I'll speak to him about it at the Twins, if he seems ready for it, he'll have my permission," he said, at long last, eyes fixated on Jon as he helped Robb back to his feet, the lad of copper hair nursing his head.

Benjen felt at ease, going to join his brother along the bannister. Watching as Jon and Robb jabbed at each other playfully before Rodrik stepped in, separating the two, chastising them both with a strict tone of voice. "So, when is it we make for the Twins?"

"Preparations have already been made, we'll leave by the morrow if all goes accordingly," he answered, drawing away from the walkway's railing. "Will you stay for the Tourney as well, or will you have to return to the Wall after the wedding?"

Benjen looked at him with downcast eyes. "I've the time to spare for it, though I can't honestly say I'm all too thrilled to be at a tourney with Rhaegar Targaryen, given the last one."

Eddard nodded knowingly, the events at Harrenhal still fresh in his mind as if it were just yesterday. "If the Old Gods be good, we may just get through this without a war having started."

Neither said anything after that, both lost in the solemn thoughts of their minds that speaking of the past provoked. For Eddard though, there was more at stake here than who the possible tourney champion would crown as Queen of Love and Beauty. Jon would be attending. It would be the first time both Jon and Rhaegar would have seen one another in nine years, and while Jon had been but a shrub the last time the King had seen him, Jon stood a near man now, and though most couldn't see it in the boy's face, Eddard knowing what he knew, could see the King's visage reflected in Jon's, the similar nose, the cheekbones. If you knew what to look for, you could certainly find it. _He only prayed Rhaegar didn't_.


	2. The Dragons Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House Frey accepts guests into the Twins in advance of the wedding between Roslin and Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was certainly blown away with the response for the first chapter, thank you all so much! It was very encouraging, if not a bit intimidating to try and make sure this maintains expectations.
> 
> For any new readers, who may be interested there is a prelude that will run alongside this for a time, and focus' on events after Rhaegar wins the Trident.

* * *

_**A Clash of Vows** _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Two: The Dragons Arrival**

* * *

**Eddard II**

* * *

Set at the foot of the Twins eastern Keep's barbican, Eddard looked from left to right to inspect the appearance of his House kin, on his right, Catelyn, Sansa and Arya, hair neatly done with pins and light grey cloaks shading their formal gowns beneath, by his opinion they looked the perfect image of proper Northern ladies. To his left in order of position to him stood, Robb, Benjen, Theon, and Jon, all of whom but his brother had shaven their buddoning stubble at Catelyn's request.

Robb with his broad shoulders bulked by a heavy, fur trimmed cloak similar to Eddard's own looked very much the Northern Lord despite his Tully features, Theon looking lanky in his flowing cape of a mottled blue and grey pulled open to show his dark grey doublet emblazoned with a gold Krakken on his chest appeared to be lost in a fashion torn between the north and the Iron Isles, and finally, there stood, Jon. The boy never did take much to colour in his wardrobe, not that the North held the luxury of fine silks or the array of dye needed to colour linen like the south did, but recently, the young man had taken to copying Benjen's choice of wardrobe since his brother had returned to Winterfell, drabbed in all black from head to toe, a simple black cloak draped over his shoulders engulphed his attire of black boiled leathers, if one didn't know better they might have assumed Jon already a brother of the Watch.

Dragging his focus away, Eddard let his eyes drift over the roadway to the assembled horde of Frey's across from him, other than the near skeletal frame of Walder Frey -who he still struggled to view as the man who would be his heir's Good-Father- he couldn't decipher who was the man's wife, brothers, cousin's or children, so similar in appearance they could all be his children for all he knew, the Frey family tree was surely a series of branches that twisted and extended into inconceivability, as Rhaegar Targaryen once told him, _'Walder Frey's roots run deep and his seed plentiful',_ the Frey's were likely to have a family forest than a family tree, thanks in part to the many wives the elderly Lord of the Crossing had taken to bed throughout his lengthy existance.

An audible gasp of excitement drew Eddard's attention from the Frey's to a hill that ran with the King's Road, the black banners of House Targaryen appearing above the horizon, the red, three-headed dragon flying against a calm breeze that rippled over the grassy knolls surrounding the Twins, the King and company arriving just as Walder's scouts had said they would. Lead by nearly forty crownland cavalry in gleaming, silver plate armor comprised mostly of Dragonstone men by their appearance trodded in strict formation, their column preceded by a single Kingsguard, the man, unidentifiable to Eddard at this distance shined radiantly under the afternoon sun with all the glory that came with his white and gold trim armour, and billowing white cloak.

Yet it was in the shadow cast behind the troops and their destriers that garnered his rapt focus, a closed carriage painted black and dressed with ornate carvings of gold dragons pulled by eight steeds, trailing at the rear of the carriage was another two Kingsguard and column of crownland cavalry, a few open wagons carrying chests and barrels filed in at the end, no doubt the prize winnings for the tourney and garments of the royal retinue. A horn sounded off from somewhere in the royal procession as they neared the Twins gate, all of those gathered as a welcoming party to the King and his cohort sank to a knee with bowed heads.

Eyes to the ground, Eddard tensed as he heard the carriage lurch to a halt, the sound of armoured men climbing down from their mounts and the opening of a carriage door ensued. The carriage emitting a  slight creak as two pairs of feet climbed down, one set breaking off from the other to plant themselves in front of Eddard. Fingers lightly touching his shoulder, he looked up to the all to familiar face of, Rhaegar Targaryen, the sun shining over his shoulder and illuminating his silver hair, a gold band studded with jewels hanging low on his brow.

"Rise, Lord Stark," the King commanded, his tone gentle.

Clambering to his feet, Eddard motioned for the rest of his household to stand. A wave of motion followed him as they rose.

"My King," he greeted, the words left him more bitterly than intended. The bitterness, however, went unnoticed by Rhaegar who seemed taken with soaking in the faces of the Stark household.

Rhaegar, however, didn't seem bothered in the least as the King's violet eyes raked over the Stark's, the Targaryen's gaze lingering on Jon. The King blinked and cast his focus onto his heir's. "Robb Stark. I'm pleased to be in attendance for a day of such importance. You've grown from our last encounter, gone is the boy you were, a man now in his place, you take after the look of your mother, I see."

Shifting awkwardly, Robb bowed his head in humble offering. "It's been many namedays since you last came to Winterfell, your Grace, I shall thank you for having arranged this betrothal to mine fair Lady, Roslin."

"I will ask the Seven to bless your union with endless love and merriment for all your days together," returned Rhaegar, reaching up, he planted a hand on the stoic Stark's shoulder. "Know this wedding will heal the wounds of the old revolt, a united realm undivided by rebel and loyalist. Seven Kingdoms, strong together, at last."

Robb gave an uneasy nod, the man leaving his heir short of a reply. Taking notice of his sons, uncomfortableness, he stepped forward with an arm gestured to Catelyn and his daughters.

"Your Grace, may I introduce the rest of my House, my wife, Lady Cat--" he began, his voice drowning to silence as Rhaegar interjected.

"Lady Catelyn," greeted Rhaegar, parting from Robb to meet her. "It's been far too long since I've last had the pleasure, beauty has not escaped you after all this time."

Catelyn did a curtsey, her face void of any smile that such flattery may have brought another in her position.

Looking to move the King along from his perturbed wife, Eddard gestured to his daughters, both blushing and nervous under the gaze of amethyst eyes that befell them. "My eldest daughter, Sansa, your Grace, and my youngest, Arya."

Both girls did a curtsey at the introduction, although Arya only did so after receiving an imploring glare from his wife.

"Your Grace," they greeted in unison.

"Two Northern flowers," the King commended. "Your house is blessed with beauty, Lord Stark."

"The Gods have been kind," supplied Eddard, tensing as the man moved to size up the rest of his house, the male line.

"The look of a Stark and dressed in sworn black, the young pup, Benjen Stark, I presume?" Noted Rhaegar, eyes looking the man over.

Benjen nodded, his head held high under the man's scrutiny. "Aye, your Grace."

"Pray tell, how fares the Wall?" Inquired Rhaegar.

"The days are cold, and the night's even more so," answered Benjen.

"I profess the realm is safer with a man of your stature standing watch there," the King complimented, he gave his brother a nod before moving down the line again, the man's eyes widening a fraction at the sight of Theon. "Sigil of the Krakken, I dare say, be you, Theon Greyjoy?"

"I am, your Grace," replied Theon, a smug smirk coming to form as he took a knee.

"On your feet, lad, let's have a look at you," Rhaegar beckoned, his ward doing as commanded. "The Lord of Winterfell's made a man of you. Your Lord Father will be pleased to know it."

"I hope to visit Pyke soon, your Grace, if only to better know the island's I'll come to rule someday," quipped Theon.

Rhaegar smiled. "And rule them well, I should think," at last, the silver-haired monarch turned to Jon, and Eddard's breath got lost somewhere in between his lungs and his throat. A drawn-out silence holding out until Jon knelt, with his head bowed.

"Your Grace," greeted Jon simply, waiting for the King to request he stand, yet it wasn't quick to come. The King taking a pregnant moment of time before motioning for Jon to retake his footing.

"Jon Snow," returned Rhaegar, his amethyst eyes bearing into Jon's own until the boy had to divert his gaze.

With the greeting starting to look as if it was to be the King staring endlessly at the boy, Eddard stepped forward, coming in between the two.

"We've yet to be introduced to your sister," suggested Eddard, watching as the King almost reluctantly tore his vision from Jon.

"Forgive me, the journey here has been long, my Lord," defended Rhaegar, his tone barely a whisper. "Daenerys, sweet sister, come hither."

* * *

**Jon II**

* * *

Jon could have thanked his father right then and there for saving him from the King's awkward inspection, he had attempted to hold himself composed though it all, but the King's gaze was intense and forced him to look away, only returning his gaze to the Targaryen King when he heard his father ask the man to meet his sister and he strolled away, allowing Jon to release a held breath. 

Curiosity having gotten the better of him, he peered to the carriage, taking notice of a girl who was of the fairest beauty he'd ever laid eyes on, wasn't such beauty said to be a myth? Her silver-blonde hair braided back in a curtain of hair that trailed down her back, her cleavage while small, was enhanced by the ornate bodice she wore overtop a crimson gown of crimson with long flowing sleeves trimmed in black, he watched her float to the King's side, and do a curtsey for his father. He was stricken by her graceful movement, for all of Sansa's efforts to be a perfect lady, she curtsied like a stiff board in comparison to the King's sister he noted.

"Close your mouth, Snow, you're drooling," whispered Theon from the side, a subdued laugh rumbling out of him as Jon subconsciously dragged his sleeve across his lips.

"Piss off," hissed Jon in return, willing the rush of blood that had crept to his cheeks to depart him.

Theon's amusement prolonged itself despite Jon's scowl, in an attempt to hide his obvious stare of the Princess, he looked away to the Frey's, the men across from him, beady-eyed and disregarding of who saw them look, stared openly at the King's sister, one of them, a short fat one, face marred by pockets on his cheeks went so far as to lick his lips.

Jon shook his head, looking away, unfortunately his gaze drew back to the King and company, his chest thudded with a racing heart as he found the Princess looking back at him, their eyes meeting, and he felt powerless to not keep peering into the warm, violet pools that served as a window to what he could only fathom was a soft and tender soul.

Mouth suddenly becoming parched as his hands dampened, he was knocked from the girl's hypnotic gaze by Theon's elbow to his side. Clasping at the sharp pain that throbbed, he glowered at his father's ward. "What was that for?"

"You're in my way bastard," provided Theon haughtily with a huff. "Didn't you hear your father, Snow, Lord Stark's dismissed us."

Grumbling to himself, Jon took a step back to make way for Theon to pass, watching then as Arya ran giddily by him, Lady Catelyn pursuing her with Sansa at her side, both seemingly displeased with the unladylike behaviour of the youngest Stark present. With the majority of his family clear from the causeway and unable to resist stealing one more look at the Princess, Jon was left disappointed as he found her and the King had moved on to greet the Frey's, their backs to him.

 _"Jon,"_ called his father, startling him.

"Lord Stark," he acknowledged formally, given their current company, turning with evident surprise as Eddard approached, hoping dearly his father hadn't caught him staring.

"I'd like to have a word," said Eddard, the liege Lord of the North turning to look at his brother. "Join us, won't you, Ben'."

Benjen agreed, and the two men beckoned for him to follow, obligingly, Jon did as bid. The three walked in silence into the courtyard of the Twins keep where servants ran about in a frenzy, some hauling goods for the nights feast into the keep from wagon's, others sweeping away at the cobblestone yard littered with strewn hay and horse dung, he had figured they would stop there, yet his Uncle and father carried on through to a gate at the other end of the yard till he found himself on one end of the Frey's crossing, the calm water on either side of the bridge standing quiet, not so much as a fish stirred beneath the surface to disrupt its tranquility, the only sound being the clicking of crickets and croaks of frogs alongside the riverbanks.

"Glad that's over with," noted Benjen at last, the man skimming off to the side of the bridge to look over the edge.

"What's over... _Meeting the King?"_ Asked Jon curiously.

Benjen opened his mouth to reply, but it was his father who spoke first.

"My brother's said you've expressed a desire to join the Watch," stated Eddard bluntly, the man's eyes gauging him for a confirmation.

He nodded. "I have."

"And you're serious about it?" Questioned Eddard.

Sparing a look to his Uncle, Jon turned back to his father, nodding once more.

"To make a vow is a sacred, Jon. To break one is to bring dishonour on yourself," divulged Eddard. "Think on it, are you certain you're ready to make such a commitment?"

"I've been ready for months now," said Jon firmly, he'd envisioned this moment for as long as he could remember. Never in any of those moments did he think it would be his father who broached him about the Watch unless it was Lady Catelyn who had implored him to. "I'm ready to become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch."

"There'll be no going back once you've said the words, you know that don't you," pressed Eddard. "Do you remember the deserter I dealt with not long back, do you remember his fate?"

"Aye, I remember," he responded, vividly recalling as his father took the man's head. "I'm no coward, nor am I going to be a deserter. I realize what it means to take the Night's Watch vows."

"You know it means you'll never be able to sire children then," cut in Benjen.

Jon closed his eyes for a second, opening them with a glint of hard determination. "I do."

"Your life will be at the Wall, the entirety of it," pushed on Benjen. "There'll be no running back to Winterfell when times get hard, you wont have a hearth in your room to keep you warm at night. You'll be in a barracks, stuffed in a cot next to a hundred men who might've been murderers, and men who might have raped. There's no, Old Nan's at Castle Black to tell you tall tales to help you sleep."

Jon's brows furrowed. "You speak to me as if I'm a child. I know what it means to take the black, Uncle, I know it's not to be a life of comfort. I'm ready for it all the same."

While having maintained a straight face the entire conversation, Benjen broke, cracking a smile as he looked to his brother with a knowing look.

Eddard, in turn, gave a nod, before fixing his focus on his son. "Take the time here to see the world outside of Winterfell for yourself, Jon. If you've the same determination as you have now to serve at the Wall by the time we're set to return North, you'll have my blessing."

Easing up, Jon let a smile grace his face. "Thank you."

Without returning the facial sentiment, Eddard turned back to Frey's keep. "Stay out of trouble, and remind your siblings when you see them to mind their wolves, just cause they're penned up doesn't mean they don't need to be cared for."

Jon agreed, observing as his father walked away, his dark, fur-trimmed cloak dragging after him.

"Well, that went better than I expected," commented Benjen, clapping Jon on the back. "You did good."

"Why didn't you tell me you spoke to him about me joining the Watch?" Questioned Jon, somewhat relieved that he hadn't had to broach his father on the matter.

"Encase he shot it down, no point in getting your hopes up if it were all for naught," returned Benjen, his eyes drifted back to the keep, looking up to a few narrow windowsills that shone with torchlight. "Best be getting inside, Old Walder's probably splurged on good ale and meat for the King's welcoming feast."

Jon grinned at the suggestion, ever since his father notified him that he'd be able to attend the feast, and Robb's wedding by extension -which at Winterfell was near treason to speak of in front of Lady Catelyn- he'd been eager to finally see what transpired. For all the years he stood outside Winterfell's Great Hall as noble Lord's and Lady's were entertained, he'd finally know what it was like to be a full Stark, not that he expected to sit at a table of distinction or with his siblings for that matter, he was just pleased to be apart.

"You dreaming there, Jon?" Questioned Benjen, nudging him in the shoulder.

Jon gave a shake of his head, holding back the grin. "It's nothing, shall we?"

"Aye, come on," urged Benjen, the Night's Watchmen leading the way back.

* * *

**Daenerys I**

* * *

Forcing a smile, Daenerys bid yet another Lord good fortune and health after holding her hand for far too long, the men always eyed her with the same wanting look she had grown accustomed to receiving. Either wanting her or wanting what she could get for them from her brother. She loathed events such as these, where men of such coming were in abundance, not that Rhaegar was the type to host them, but his Hand, the jovial, buffoon, Mace Tyrell would see to the Red Keep frequently holding banquets and ball's, her brother preferred quiet nights reading in his solar than feasts and merriment. She didn't begrudge him for it either, in fact, his ability to shy away from the attention and glory of being King was one of Rhaegar's more redeeming qualities, one thing the two had in common, being royalty did not define them as it had Viserys.

"More wine, Princess?" Asked Myria, drawing her focus.

Eying her half-empty goblet, Daenerys shook her head. "I've still some left," she said, eyeing her Dornish lady-in-waiting. "Do you know who that was I just spoke to?"

"Not by name, though he wore a brooch in the shape of a merman, the sigil of House Manderly," supplied Myria, the girls almond eyes squinting in thought. "A Northern House I believe."

"He was quite large," noted Daenerys, watching as the burly man went off to address a few other men she presumed to be of the North as well, their hair long, and most sported wears of fur with long beards. "They don't seem like savages do they? The Northmen I mean."

"The North is unlike any other Kingdom, others frown that some still follow false Gods there, to call them savage is just a saying, Princess, after all, if they truly were a savage sort, it only serves them well, they are terribly handsome aren't they," noted Myria, her eyes drifting down the table to where Robb Stark sat nestled in between his mother and the shy, Roslin Frey, the young pair each blushing as they chanced glances at one another.

"Their bastards too, apparently," quipped Daenerys, remembering the moment her brother had called her to greet the Stark Household upon their arrival, naturally her gaze was drawn to the boy Rhaegar had droned on endlessly about on their way from King's Landing, she just didn't expect her gaze to linger on the dark haired man for so long.

Myria laughed, and Daenerys looked to her, her brows furrowed as a look of confusion graced her face, had she been so apparent in her interest of the northern bastard that her Lady thought it amusing?

"Oh, he's handsome, but that's the Dornish in him, for that I am certain," said Myria, the girl's matter-of-fact tone piquing her interest.

 _"Dornish?"_ Questioned Daenerys.

"You've not heard the rumours?" Asked Myria surprised.

Shaking her head slowly, Daenerys cast the girl an imploring look to fill her in on the gossip of the realm.

"They say his mother was Ashara Dayne, the Sword of the Morning's sister," explained Myria, though the matter-of-fact tone she previously had dissipated as she continued on. "Though they also say his mother could have been his wet-nurse, she served the Dayne's... Then again, when I last saw Edric Dayne, he refuted both those rumours."

Daenerys interest wained, she usually never indulged in gossip for the same reason she had stopped listening to Myria, it was never reliable to bear any truth, but the fact she almost came to know something her brother didn't, was to good to pass up. Turning back to look out at the rowed tables in the lower hall, her gaze drifted over the merry faces of the men and women engaged in conversation, the long tables covered with platters of roast boar, baked bread, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables, though all that food was dwarfed by the mugs of ale, and goblets of wine, that was featured prominently throughout the hall, in truth, it was hard not to find a single person without some inebriating beverage or another in hand.

Cross that she thought, her eyes finding Ned Stark's bastard at the far end of the hall, engulphed by some Northmen of lower Houses, his dark brown, shoulder-length hair hanging like a veil over his face as he stared fixedly down at his plate, pushing a mash of food around with a fork, any sort of ale or wine amiss from his immediate surroundings, mayhaps the only person in the entire hall that wasn't half pissed off drink. He seemed contemplative, mayhaps brooding even, she felt her lips move to a smile, mayhaps he was like her, mayhaps he had attended enough feasts over the years to know he didn't enjoy them, or the company they brought as well. It was a comforting thing to think that she wasn't alone in the evening's despair. She hastily looked away as his head turned in her direction, not wanting to repeat the morning encounter in which they had simply stared at one another.

Her smile faltered as she turned to her brother seated at her side, his own gaze peering straight ahead at the young man she herself had just been observing. Rhaegar didn't blink, his face vacant of emotion as if he were in some far away place rather than the wood-paneled hall of one of House Frey's dual keeps they found themselves in.

"Rhaegar," she prodded, her eyes narrowing as her brother went unphased, leaning in she whispered. " _Rhaegar!"_

"Hmm?" Rhaegar hummed, still in whatever trance that had overcome him, his gaze still locked on the far end of the hall.

Reaching over, she grasped his forearm, giving it a firm shake, at last, his neck craned to view her.

"Dany," he said softly as if realizing she was there for the first time, his focus shifting to her plate. "How is your meal?"

"It's... It's fine," replied Daenerys. "Are you alright, brother. You seem... _distracted."_

"Nonsense," he protested, reaching for his goblet, he took a drink of his wine. "Mayhaps I should retire, the day's ride has worn on me."

While Daenerys would have usually been all for departing the feast, she knew it would be in bad taste to leave such an event thrown in their honour so early. "You can't leave yet, it would be disrespectful to our host."

Rhaegar looked at her, and he nodded as if approving of her insight. "Aye, you're right, it wouldn't be wise to offend our gracious host would it," he tentatively placed a hand over hers on the table and gave it an affectionate pat. "Forgive me for my lack of banter this evening, I must be a dreadful dining companion."

"You've certainly lost your knack for entertaining, but I would still prefer to dine with you than, Viserys," she returned. "You've been very quiet since we arrived, you know."

"Was I much different before?" He countered.

"... Nay," admitted Daenerys. "But I know you well enough to know when you're troubled."

"You worry needlessly, sweet sister, what troubles could I possibly have," Rhaegar defended, taking another pull from his goblet, he polished off what little contents remained in it. "If anything, I am joyful. There is to be a wedding in the morrow."

Daenerys wasn't so quick to believe he wasn't troubled, but she wouldn't pursue it any longer for his sake. "I've not seen you _joyful_ for a wedding before, why does this one move you to such happiness?"

Rhaegar sighed. "Considering I've not had to threaten the groom with having my Kingsguard drag him to the Sept to make his wedding vows brings me joy, furthermore, I truly believe this wedding to have the potential to bring lasting peace to the realm. Can I not have peace as the cause to my happiness?"

Even though she was amused at the mention of Viserys wedding day, she conceded to allow him his queer notion of the Stark and Frey wedding, to her regret, her brother was taken by the old Lord Frey on the other side of him, the toothless man launching into a boastful speech about the history of his House, no wonder her brother had hoped to leave the feast she surmised. Shifting in her seat to turn back to Myria, she found the Dornish beauty lost to a conversation with her other lady-in-waiting, Desmera of House Redwyne, the freckled girl of the Reach giggling at something Myria had said.

Taking hold of her fork, Daenerys looked to her plate, a cut of boar meat with a chunk of fat along its edges sat staring back at her. Piercing it's with the prongs of her fork, she stirred it about the plate as she had seen the northern bastard do. She almost smiled at doing something so juvenile, looking up, she dared a glance to the far end of the hall, coming up disappointed when she saw the young man's seat vacant. _Disappointed?_ Pushing the obscure feeling away, she decided rationally the young man must have grown tired of the feast and chosen to depart. No matter, she thought, putting down her fork. She would see the bastard again soon enough and at that point, she would make it her mandate to uncover whatever it was about the Bastard of Winterfell that caught her brother's interest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter teaser: Robb and Ros wed, Dany and Jon meet.
> 
> If you liked, please leave some feedback, and all kudos' and bookmarks are greatly appreciated. Nice to know I'm not the only one who enjoys this X) thank you all and take care!


	3. A Union of Two Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Roslin make their vows. Jon converses with the Dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am left continually blown away by the support this story has received from everyone thus far, so thank you all so much its all so wonderful and appreciated! 
> 
> That said, guess we'll get right into it.

* * *

** _A Clash of Vows_   
**

** _A Series of Broken Promises_ **

** Chapter Three: A Union of Two Houses**

* * *

**Jon III**

* * *

As the mid-day sun looked to set and cast the Twins in darkness, the day remained chipper for it was one of utmost importance, for it was on this day and within the towering eastern keep, that the Frey's played host to the union of matrimony between themselves and the heir to the North, Robb Stark. The Great Hall of the keep, looking abnormally fanciful this day, with its wood-panelled walls dressed with fine tapestries depicting the two towers throughout the ages, from a set of simple wooden watchtowers and a skiff crossing the river, the tapestries went on to show as they grew over the centuries till they came to be the dual giants of stone that sat the Green Fork.

The lower hall that had been previously stocked with long tables for last night's feast had been cleared in favour of rows of simple wood chairs for a couple hundred or more of the wedding's more esteemed guests, those that weren't as privileged, like Jon, stood watching from the back. The wedding would have been held in the keep's minuscule Sept if it weren't for the abundance of guests that flocked to attend.

With the Starks and their prominent bannermen taking up the first few rows of seats on the left side of the hall, Jon took in the Freys and their large household of the right side, mixed in among the front row of Freys were a few Lords of noteworthiness, and the King and kin, but by Jon's opinion there were only a few Lords attending on behalf of the Freys. It was no secret that had the Freys not wed a Stark, many of the House's throughout the realm wouldn't have been their today to pay homage to the wedding, after all, it was the _'traitor'_ Walder Frey who had made less friends than enemies over the years, and all those who came on behalf of the Starks were weary as to what hospitality the Freys could offer when they bore a reputation of betrayal and deceit.

All eyes shifted on the auburn-haired, Robb Stark as he took Roslin Frey's hands in his own, a girl pleasing to the eyes and looking oddly out of place if ever compared to her family's usual weaselly looks. Small in stature, it would be ignorant to not note his good-sister looked quite pretty in her white gown, her face alight as she kept chancing fleeting glances to Robb.

The Septon presiding over them was a worm of a man, bald, with loose wrinkled skin hanging from his face like jowls, a white robe embroidered on the chest with a Seven Pointed Star.

"Welcome my Lord's and Lady's, you have gathered here today to bear witness to the union of two lovers of two great House's, Robb of the House Stark and Roslin of the House Frey," announced the Septon, his hands raised up and out to the young couple before him.

Jon smiled as his brother's cheeks flushed red at the Septon's decree, he'd known Robb his entire life, and in all those years he would have never associated nervousness and blushing with his father's heir. Robb was confident, and everything Jon hoped to be himself. Honourable, brave, and _a trueborn son of their father._

Absently, Jon could hear the Septon drone on with the ceremony, but he chose to let his gaze roam as Roslin turned to permit Robb in cloaking her. Almost making a game of it, he looked to eye all the guests who hadn't been present at last night's feast. Edmure Tully he noticed -representing his and Lady Catelyn's father as the elderly Lord of Riverrun refused to attend- sat near the King and his sister, beside him was a rather thin man with noticeable features of the Frey's, yet it was a man Jon hadn't seen the night before, mayhaps they arrived together this morning as so many Lords of other Houses had. Behind them were a few other Lords of the Riverlands that Benjen had pointed out to him that morning, Whent, Mooton, and Ryger to name a few. Most of the Riverland houses in attendance were those that had foregone their Lord Paramount's wishes during the rebellion and sided with the throne.

Focus drawn to the two seats that held heads of silver, Jon idly wondered why the King had seen fit to be present at Robb's wedding, surely the King would have more pressing matter's to deal with than attend the wedding of the heir of Winterfell. Was it guilt for having made this betrothal that brought him here? Mayhaps he was entirely overthinking the matter, surely not every man had ulterior motives for what they did, Northmen didn't, at least those he knew well enough to make such a claim. Northmen did as they said, and meant what they did, there was no ulterior motives, only honour.

Yanked from his inner mind to the sound of clapping, he directed his gaze back to the front of the hall to take in the sight of Robb and Roslin kissing, it was short, but sweet, the couple breaking to hold a wanting look between them that lasted longer than the preceding kiss. He nearly laughed when the towering form of Greatjon Umber rose from his seat calling for the feast to begin, several other northern Lords following the sentiment as they chanted for the feast to commence. Mayhaps Northmen did have ulterior motives he conceded, mayhaps everything they did was for drink.

* * *

**Catelyn I & Eddard III**

* * *

Wine flowed that evening like the kegs were tapped to the Trident itself, some of the Riverland Lords had consumed enough to leave their tongues stained red and their whits numb enough to have forgotton the Frey's former misgivings as Catelyn Stark watched as the old Lord of Seagard himself, Ser Jason Mallister a loyal bannerman to her father embrace the pot-bellied, Ryman Frey with an arm slung over the pig of a man's shoulder, the two of them merrily swaying from side to side as they slurred their way through a tune, in their hands -opposite of another- their goblets swished with a riverland wine, plenty of it splashing over the rim to the hard wood floor of the Twins Great Hall.

Deepening her scowl further was the sight of her own brother, Edmure on the overhanging balcony above Walder Frey's seat cheerily pouring some of the same red liquid from a pitcher into the goblet of Edwyn Frey, the snot nosed weasel, Rheagar Targaryen had forced her father to take as a ward after Walder Frey betrayed him at the Trident, all those years ago when Robert Baratheon could have proved the victor and saved her firstborn from a life wed to a Frey. But Rhaegar had won the day, and she loathed that man for it, loathed him for everything he had done to her family, Tully and Stark alike.

Searching out his silver mane amidst the drunken squabble of the hall, her eyes came to rest on the man's sister tucked in the corner of the hall with her ladies, she looked on till she saw the King surrounded by the men of his Kingsguard, and if at all possible she hated him all the more as he approached Ned's brother and bastard near a secluded section of the hall.

"Even knowing this day was to come for years, it's still hard to fathom that its reckoning is here," commented Eddard lamely, surprising her as he appeared at her side, a goblet of wine offered out for her to take. "I know this day hasn't been easy for you to stomach, but I hope this supplements the grief."

Taking the goblet, she downed it with ease, feeling a slight warmth as it trailed down her throat.

"Shall I fetch a cask?" Questioned Eddard lightly, observing as she looked at her empty goblet.

"I would down a keg if it rid me of mine misery," she huffed, looking to him with an inquisitive stare as a thought came to her. "Oh dear, the girls, where's Sansa and Arya?"

"Taken care of," he answered. "I ordered Jory take them to the courtyard to tend to their wolves, the merriment here has foregone what they should be present to at such an age."

"Sansa went without fuss?" she questioned, she knew her eldest daughter well enough to know the girl would loath to be amiss from an event in which royalty was attending. _Royalty. The King. The bain of her family's misfortune and misery._

"She fussed, but went none the less," replied Eddard, taking in her somber, if not sullen expression. "Vayon's daughter is with her, she's not without company. You shouldn't fret, Cat'."

"I fret not for our daughter, Ned', _I fret for our son_ ," she muttered. "The Frey's, Ned'. The King arranged this for no better reason than to tarnish, Robb's honour!"

"Hush, Cat'," implored Eddard, looking over his shoulder to ensure she wasn't overheard. "Roslin Frey is the daughter of a noble, the King could have picked a far worse bride for our son had he decided to do so. Nay, I misspoke, Roslin Stark now, our Good-Daughter. You should think better of her and its arrangement that made her family, lest you forget its what allowed the North's sins during the rebellion to be forgotten. The Frey's did the King a service at the Trident, your father would have seen House Frey in ruins if Rhaegar hadn't delivered your father a Frey hostage and tied House Tully and Frey together by Robb, our son. Its a peaceful means to what could have been a bloody end."

"You defend him? The son of the man who killed Brandon and your father!?" Seethed Catelyn.

Eddard growled. "Lower your tone."

"Why, do I appear to you to be a Silent-sister? I've held my tongue for far too long, you spoke in Winterfell to the slights your bastard was made to bear living under our roof, what of the slights I've had to bear?" she snapped, she quickly brought the goblet to her lips only to growl in frustration when no liquid came. "Bastard and betrothal, both slights of your doing that I've been made to bear."

"Enough," warned Eddard, growing weary of her rising tone in such a public place. _"We shall discuss this in the privacy of our quarters."_

" _We shan't,_ I will not be silenced, I will not continue to stand by and hold my tongue as that snake muddys our family's honour!" snapped Catelyn, she pivoted on her heel so she could direct a finger to the King in which they spoke of, Eddard's eyes narrowing as he saw her point out Jon and Benjen conversing with him. "He speaks to your bastard, brings the attention of my father's bannermen to your shame!"

Posture straightening, Eddard ignored her snide remark as he strode passed his fuming wife, his face hard set as he made for Jon across the Hall, pushing men and women aside. _"Jon!"_

Dark brown hair swishing about as his head snapped to the side, Jon looked a little flustered by his father's sudden appearance. "Father."

"Come, boy," called Eddard, clapping an arm around Jon's shoulder, he pulled him close. His head held high as he turned to Rhaegar. "Excuse mine son, your Grace. I've need of him, please, enjoy the feast."

"Your son's expressed a desire for the Night's Watch, Lord Eddard. I commend him, such a noble path for a man so young to take," commented Rhaegar aloud, stilling Eddard as he sought to leave.

"House Stark has a storied history with the Watch," responded Eddard stiffly as though defending Jon's choice, half turning to face the King.

"Your brother included," Rhaegar said, giving a nod to Benjen. "First Ranger I'm told."

"Aye, a position of high honour in which I'm thankful to serve," returned Benjen. "In truth, I am often guided by your kin when I've met with a troubled mind, Maester Aemon is as wise as he is old."

Rhaegar smiled softly. "I had once hoped to have him serve in King's Landing, alas, he's refused me countless times. It would seem he's attached to that Wall as if they are one and the same."

"He's a fixture of the Watch, more knowledgeable than any man I've ever met, you can hear no better advice than which he can give." Replied Benjen fondly.

"There's a Targaryen at the Wall?" Asked Jon, his brows nestled together.

"You've not heard tale of Aemon Targaryen?" Questioned Rhaegar, he looked genuinely intrigued by Jon's interest and by Eddard's opinion, overly enthused to inform Jon of Maester Aemon.

"Mayhaps a tale for another time," cut-in Eddard, he took a step and pulled Jon with him. "If you'll excuse us, your Grace."

"Certainly, Lord Stark, another time," returned Rhaegar dejected, his dark, amethyst eyes bearing down on Jon. "Till we speak again, Jon Snow."

"Your Grace," Jon bid, quickly keeping stride with his father as they made their way through the crowd of merrymakers. "Where are we going?"

Eddard ignored the question, replying with one of his own. "What did the King want with you?"

"Want with me?" Repeated Jon, pulling a look of confusion. "He didn't want anything... We were only talking."

"Talking about what?" Demanded Eddard, he hauled Jon to a corner of the Hall and spun him about so he gripped Jon by the shoulders.

"He just wanted to know how I fared, what my plans for the future were, so we discussed the Watch, that's all," answered Jon, shifting uncomfortably beneath his father's grasp as his finger dug in.

Eddard breathed a heavy sigh, his hands loosening their hold. "Vow to me you'll stay away from the King, Jon. I don't want you near him."

Jon shook his head, confused. "I don't understand, is this because of what they say about him and Aunt Lyanna?"

"No," bit out Eddard hurriedly. "It's merely what I ask of you, my reasons are mine own. Can I trust you'll obey my request?"

While curiosity nagged at him to push for the reasoning behind his father's bizarre request, Jon resigned himself to accepting what was asked of him, didn't he always. "I'll keep away from the King."

"Good lad," said Eddard, he gave a few gentle pats to the side of Jon's cheek before releasing his him. "Now go on and find your sisters in the courtyard. Jory could use a break from keeping watch over 'em."

Jon groaned outwardly, but Eddard gave him a pointed look in return that silenced his annoyance at being made to watch his sisters, the Warden of the North tracing the boys every step till he was out of the Hall and far from where Rhaegar could pry into him, only then did his rigid stance lighten as though an unseen weight of concern was lifted.

* * *

**Jon IV**

* * *

Having surrendered to his father's command, he stalked from the Hall to the sound of cheers and music following after him, his booted feet carrying him purposefully through the dim corridors that seemingly turned a corner every ten paces or so to a series of short steps. Grumbling as he made his way down the keep, Jon took in the hallways littered with those who had come to relish in the celebration of Robb's wedding. A few men, so inebriated by the wine and ale stood half bent out the narrow slits of the keep's windows hurling the contents of their stomachs to the great below. A smile graced his face when he passed a drunken, Ser Rodrik at the top of a stairwell, the usually proper Master-at-Arms swaying on his feet as he entertained a few equally sloshed men with a tale of a past battle he'd participated in.

So grateful to escape the sounds of dry heaving and drunken slurred conversations by the time he reached the bottom, Jon inhaled a deep breath of fresh air when he found himself stepping outside, the scenery around him was one of a relatively calm setting. A few men of the poorly armed Frey House guard patrolled the courtyard, spears resting on their shoulders as they shuffled about, the crude pens serving as constructed kennels to hold Ghost and his sibling direwolves rested in one corner, scanning the area further, he came to discover Sansa's fiery red hair seated on some crates with Jeyne Poole, a few paces away was Arya kneeling on the ground as she patted a prone Nymeria, the growing direwolf's eyes rested closed as it basked in his young sister's loving affection. He smiled at the sight, if it weren't for having been made to relieve Jory, he would have brought Ghost out to join his sister.

Continuing his search of the yard, he spotted, Jory in the distance leaning against a stone wall, his arms folded over his gambeson clad chest.

Striding over to join him, Jon watched as Jory perked up at the sight of him. "Good evening," he greeted.

"Jon," Jory returned. "Taking a break from the festivities, lad?"

"Aye, bit to crowded for me, Lord Stark wishes me to relieve you of your watch," answered Jon, his grey orbs sweeping over the man to his sisters. "If you're eager, I passed Ser Rodrick on my way down, he's regaling a few southerner's with a tale of the Greyjoy Rebellion."

"Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword I'd wager, my Uncle usually tends to captivate an audience with that one," commented Jory, a low chuckle rumbling out of him. "But if I'm relieved, I suppose a few pints are in order."

"You best hurry, the Tully bannermen are truly drinking like fish," noted Jon, earning a more hearty set of laughter from Jory.

"That I will," quipped Jory, he looked ready to leave his post, but hesitated a moment. "Want me to stick around?"

Jon waved the offer away. "Go, enjoy yourself. I can mind these two easy enough."

The Captain of Winterfell's household guard gave a courteous nod before pushing off the wall and heading for the entryway of the Twins, a few Northmen Jon recognized as Smalljon Umber and Robett Glover stumbled out roaring with laughter as Jory passed them by on his way in, the two burly men swaying as they fell into a heap of thatched hay nestled in the courtyard corner. A skin of ale passing between them as Jon overheard their boisterous discussion regarding the different women they had bedded in their youth.

Deciding the drunken ramble between the two men lacked any interest to him, he closed his eyes and listened to the soft, rhythmic sounds of music floating down from the Great Hall above, the music sometimes drowned out by the cacophony of cheering and general mirth from those who danced to it. Leaning back against the cool stone wall, resuming the position Jory had left. His mind drifted off to thoughts of the Wall and the stories his Uncle had shared with him, the ventures to the endless expanse of the great northern beyond, the Wildling's who sought to pillage, burn and raid the realm, the Watchman turned King-Beyond-the-Wall, all of them thrilled him in comparison to this precise moment of having to watch his siblings.

He longed for the moment to take the black, to finally be a man like his Uncle Benjen. Even if criminals made up most of the Night's Watch brotherhood as his Uncle and father had been so sure to point out, he was certain there was honour to be had in taking the black, even the King had said as much during their brief encounter. He dragged himself from his ponderous mind at the sight of a hooded individual approaching him from the shadows, their head bowed to further shade their face from view.

Straightening up, Jon's eyes narrowed inquisitively as the figure reached up to pull back the hood, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of silver-hair and a pretty face. He hastily dropped to a knee, but the Princess rushed forward and gripped the edges of his black leather jerkin, trying desperately to pull him back to his feet.

 _"Please stand,"_ she beckoned hurriedly, and Jon momentarily dismayed by her plea, got back to his feet, the touch of her hands upon his shoulders heating his face with a blush he wished was hidden in the darkness of the night.

"Princess Daenerys," he greeted breathlessly, his voice a touch bit high from the nerves of being in her presence. He cast a look at his two siblings, glad to find them still taken with their immediate interests, his eyes flickering back to the Princess who had pulled her hood back up. "I um... Is there of some service I can be of?"

"If saving me from that feast is a service you can provide me, _Jon Snow,_ then it is a service I would gratefully ask you to perform," she replied softly.

Cherry cheeks turning a darker red, Jon scratched the back of his neck. _"You know my name."_

"Is that a statement or a question?" Daenerys asked amused.

Jon flustered. "Its a surprise is all, my Princess."

"If it should suffice for how it is I know you, my brother had insisted on schooling me all about House Stark on our journey from King's Landing," provided Daenerys, even though her face was cast in shade, he could see her violet eyes studying him closely. "Though Rhaegar pointed you out specifically when our carriage approached the Twins."

"The King pointed me out?" Asked Jon disbelievingly.

"Surprised again?" Jided Daenerys, she sounded almost teasing.

"Well... Aye, but why, If I might ask? _Why me?"_ returned Jon, his brows pulled together in confusion, was this truly happening? Was she truly there before him, or was it all a figment of his imagination?

She shook her head. "I should think it's my time to ask you a question, nay?"

Casting a look to his sisters, Jon focused back on her, against what was his better judgment, he nodded.

"Why is it you're here?"

Jon quirked his head to the side, brows furrowed. " _Here?_ My brother wed here, _this very day_ , you were there, isn't that why we're all here?"

"Not here as in the Twins, I mean here, as in the courtyard far from the feast?" she asked.

Shifting on his feet, Jon gestured subtly to his sisters, "I was tasked with watching my siblings."

"The other night as well? I remember them at a lower table still after you had left," Daenerys inquired, she peeled back her hood a bit to view him better and Jon was taken by her eyes in that moment, even in the dark of night, they shined just as bright as when he first saw them the day prior.

"You were watching me?" he managed to mumble.

"You're avoiding the question," she replied, upon her porcelain cheeks he noticed a slight pink.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jon hoped to change the subject, what was he to tell her? That he'd never been privy to a feast before and although he had envisioned some magnificent about it, yet all he had found at the elaborate dinner that was their welcoming feast was everything but magnificent, that it was no different from any other dinner he had at Winterfell where his siblings sat in a place of prominence while he was stowed away like a wicker basket full of unwashed linen?

A silence ensued before Jon's head snapped to view her. _"Where's your Kingsguard,_ I doubt the King would take kindly to you being out here all alone, _are you supposed to be out here alone?_ "

"Supposed to? I don't need my brother's permission to do as I please, so I gave _my Kingsguard_ the slip," answered Daenerys nonchalantly. "Ser Alliser's often quite taken with ensuring my brother's person that he sometimes forgets who he's supposed to be watching."

"Ser Alliser?" questioned Jon, he shook the curiosity away. "You should return to the keep, your minder's probably concerned."

"It's not the first time I've given the Kingsguard the slip," she refuted, maintaining her position in the shadows near him. "And it's Ser Alliser Thorne, though I should say he's not as famed as Ser Arthur Dayne was, or as well regarded as Ser Barristan or Ser Jonothor are, but he's kinder than Ser Meryn and has skill with a sword."

"Ser _Jonothor_ Darry? The ploughman?" Asked Jon enthused, he tried to dull his interest but it was evident he was intrigued by the Knight.

"Yes, thee Ser Jonothor Darry, I take it you've heard tale of him then?"

"Everyone in the North knows of Ser Jonothor, of all Kingsguard of old for that matter. Ser Arthur Dayne was legendary if tale be true of his deeds," Replied Jon.

"Then you've heard of another Kingsguard from House Darry I would expect, a brother to Ser Jonothor?" she asked, a sadness laced to her voice.

Jon raked his brain, yet he couldn't supply an answer. "If there was, I admit, I never knew."

"Ser Willem Darry," she gave. "Old, and far beyond his prime when my brother bestowed him with the white cloak, never was there a better, more deserving man to have worn it than, Ser Willem."

Edging a little closer to her, Jon looked to her with rapt focus, "What happened to him?" He felt sorrow when she ducked her head, hiding her face from him, the rim of her eyes filling with unshed tears.

"An illness took him before his time. He was kind and tender," she whispered. "He died when I was still too young to understand the finality of death, and when he left, I always expected he would return, but he never did. I miss him still, even though I can't remember what he looked like other than his head of grey hair."

Jon was captured by her admission of something so personal, something so dear. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but it wasn't his place, he was a bastard, and she the sister to the King. It would be folly for him to think they were capable of displaying such compassion, he settled on an empathetic response. "This Darry you speak of, he sounds as if he were a good man."

"He was, and in a way, despite having died, he lives on to this day," she noted.

"How so?"

"Rhaegar never replaced him, other men filled the void space left by other dead Kingsguard after they perished in the Rebellion, no ones ever replaced Ser Willem, to this day there are only six men of the Order," answered Daenerys, he could see the smile playing at the corner of her lush lips as though the thought of her _'Ser Willem'_ not being replaced gave her comfort.

"Was this, Ser Willem as good with a blade as the Sword of the Morning was?" questioned Jon, he could understand why she might not have replaced the man, but the King? What was it about this old man, turned Kingsguard that inspired such devotion he became irreplaceable?

Daenerys quirked a brow. "If Ser Arthur was so skilled with the sword, how was it your Lord father killed him in the rebellion, the great Sword of the Morning slain by Eddard Stark. Your father must be quite the swordsman, better than Ser Arthur was if he truly killed him."

Jon shrugged. "I wouldn't know, I've never seen, Lord Stark in combat."

"You call your father Lord Stark?" Asked Daenerys, her face showing her apparent surprise.

Lips pursed, Jon sighed as he ran a hand through the black curls of his hair. "Lady Catelyn never took kindly to when I called him father in front of her. I found it easier to avoid confrontation by calling him Lord Stark in front of others."

"The North is just as cruel to bastards as the South is then," commented Daenerys. "It would be a blessing if all bastards went to Dorne. They treat them as equals there, you know."

Cringing each time she said _'bastard',_ Jon took a step back so he leaned against the wall behind him. "I wasn't treated cruelly, most bastards would have been disregarded. Lord Stark took me in, raised me alongside my half-siblings. I might not have gotten to eat at the head table at Winterfell, but at least I never went hungry. I've had it better than most bastards ever had."

"You're humble," noted Daenerys aloud.

"I just don't care to neglect everything that's been done for me. I don't know if I'd call it humble," answered Jon, he swallowed and fixed her with a questioning stare. "May I ask you a question, Princess?"

"Please," offered Daenerys curiously.

"Why is it you're here, the courtyard at a feast... sneaking away to speak with a bastard seems..." Jon question drowned to silence.

"Seems what?" She inquired.

 _"... Beneath you?"_ Provided Jon slowly.

Daenerys huffed offended. "I've never given much care to the divide between highborn or lowborn, I also never cared much for feasts and banquets where old men drink far to much and the ones who think themselves cunning schmooze my brother for their own ends. _I came here to see your eyes_."

Jon was taken aback. "My eyes?"

"When Rhaegar pointed you out from the carriage, he said you had the eyes of someone he once cared for, I wanted to see if I recognized them."

Subconsciously, Jon closed his eyes as if to hide them away. Knowing all too well what his eyes meant, Benjen and many a Northmen had commented on them over the years, they were the same steel grey of his Aunt Lyanna, what they meant to the King wasn't something he was keen on learning given his Aunt and Rhaegar's brief history together.

"Do you recognize them?" He asked, voice lathered in tension.

"It's too dark to tell," Daenerys mused. "It doesn't help that you're closing your eyes."

Jon felt a rush of relief at the sound of the Princess' name being called, her body twisting about as two men drabbed in the glamourful armour of the Kingsguard barged into the courtyard, their pristine white cloaks illuminated under the moons glow. One of the Knight's turned to where they stood, and his gauntlet hand reached for the hilt of his sword at his waist before trudging towards them, his fellow Kingsguard quick to follow after.

 _"Princess,"_ scowled the Kingsguard as Daenerys lowered her hood when they neared, the man's dark eyes beneath his helm shifting onto Jon. "What do you think you're doing, boy!? Away with you!"

Stifled by the man's innate anger, Jon pushed off the wall only to have the second Kingsguard grab him by the collar of his jerkin and force him back up against it, his head thudding against the stone wall as the man leaned into him, the Kingsguard's helm just mere inches from his face.

"Unhand him, Ser Meryn!" Ordered Daenerys, she stepped to Jon's side and grabbed hold of the Kingsguard's wrist that held him against the wall. _"He's not done anything wrong!"_

"Stand back, Princess, this is the business of the Kingsguard," refuted Meryn in a sneer, his spittle peppering Jon's face. "Ser Alliser you can take the Princess to the King. I'll sort matters here."

The other Kingsguard bearing just as grim an expression as the man who held Jon against the wall stepped forward to place a guiding hand on Daenerys' shoulder. "Come now, Princess, time you ought to be getting back."

Daenerys tried to shrug the man's hand off her, yet it was to no avail, he wrapped her within his strong arms and pulled her up from the ground, carrying her with a stumbled step back to the keep.

Jon grimaced as the other Kingsguard's hand on his collar applied force, his back being crushed up against the coarse stone behind him, in the distance, he could hear the Princess shouting, her words indecipherable at that point.

"Figured you'd have your way with the King's sister, eh bastard?" sneered the man.

Eyes wide at the insinuation, Jon wanted to protest, but the sound of snarling at his side drew both their attention. Glistening, white fangs beared and its nose crinkled as it growled, he observed Arya standing at Nymeria's side, Sansa and her companion behind them with fear shimmering in their maiden eyes.

"Let go of my brother!" Commanded Arya sternly, her brows slanted down as she glared at the Kingsguard.

"Piss off, boy!" Scolded the Kingsguard, his eyes glancing to the fair-sized wolf at her side. "And take your mutt with you."

"I am not a boy," snapped Arya. "I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell and I demand you release my brother this instant!"

"Arya, stay out of this," attempted Jon, only to have the man jerk him forward before slamming him against the wall again, his head bouncing off the stone slab with a thunk.

"Shut your mouth, bastar--" growled Meryn, the man interrupted in his crude remark as Nymeria leaped up, seizing the man's forearm within its maw and tore it from Jon, the direwolf's neck thrashing as it tore into the Knight.

 _"No, Nymeria!"_ cried Arya, she lurched forward to wrap her arms around its grey fur, hoping to pull the wolf away.

While disorientated from the repeated bangs of his head, Jon's eyes grew wide as he witnessed Ser Meryn retrieve a dagger from his belt, the man snarling as he struggled against the direwolf that clutched his arm. _"NO!"_ he shouted, but It was too late to intervene, he had barely felt his fingers brushing against his sister's back before the man's blade plunged into Nymeria's throat, the wolf emitting a whimper before releasing its jaw and collapsing to cobbles of the yard.

While Arya wailed at such a pitch, and Jon had to cringe from the sound as it pierced his ears, he took to her side, wrapping her in his arms as he knelt. Holding her against him as she flailed, whispering soothing words of nothing to try and calm her. His jaw clenched as his eyes rose to meet the Kingsguard towering over them, the man inspecting his arm, careless to the dead wolf and devastated girl at his feet.

Gaze flickering from the man to the dagger lodged in Nymeria's throat, her grey fur tainted red from the seeping blood, he eyed the dagger's handle then eyed the Kingsguard.

The rash thought was dashed from mind when the archway leading from the Keep came pouring out with people, at the front of the crowd he saw his father and the King, both men looking appalled at the sight that met them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't be a wedding at the Twins without a bit of spilled blood, no?
> 
> Thank you for reading and leave some feedback if you have the time, and take care!


	4. Judgment at the Crossing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion is held over spilled blood, the tourney begins to take form and not everything is as it appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thank you all again for the amazing response to the last chapter! I am so grateful to everyone who was able to leave a reply, kudos or bookmark. Had looked to get this out sooner, but alas no such luck. I should have a Prelude chapter up this weekend at some point to those interested.
> 
> My apologies at the start. I have a feeling many people will be left displeased by this chapter for a few reasons but think of this chapter as the jump-off point to what will be a conclusion to the events at the Twins?

* * *

_**A Clash of Vows** _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Four: Judgment at the Crossing**

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**Jon V**

* * *

The solar of Lord Walder Frey. A dingy room fitted with a large desk resting on four legs carved into replica forms of the Twins dual stone keeps, the feeble Lord of the Crossing himself sitting behind it, hoping to come off as an imposing figure though his desk and seat dwarfed his scrawny, feeble frame.

At Walder's front, assembled in no seeming order were a mass of plush armchairs, the cushions of which looked worn with the embedded grooves of men's rears who had lounged in them with frequency, no doubt Walder Frey's son's having been gathered to hear the old man rant and rave about how their House was on the up and up.

The wood panel walls lined with rusted iron holders held slender candles, dried wax running down their length in clumps, their dim light casting the faces of those in attendance in a flickering shade of orange.

To Jon's left stood a sobbing Arya tucked under the arm of their father, Eddard Stark, who seemed just as displeased over the situation as the King looked, the regal figure of royalty standing rigidly still with Barristan the Bold at his side, across the room to Jon's right stood, Ser Meryn Trant, nursing his forearm, his gauntlet having been removed to show a few faint puncture wounds from Nymeria's bite, while most of the man's grievous wounds appeared to be no more than mere scratches unable to have broken the man's skin in. Trant's silver armour still sporting the droplets of Nymeria's blood from the dagger he had plunged into the direwolf.

Hand's clenched into a fist, Jon hung his head as he met his father's gaze, those aged darks eyes were stern and full of disappointment.

"Heh, mutts," sniveled Walder, reclining in his seat. "That wolf broke the custom of guest rights, didn't want the ruddy beasts here in the first place, should have put a bolt in 'em when I saw them at my gates, saved a man his arm!"

"His arm's fine, he wouldn't have been attacked had he not laid hand on me!" Proclaimed Jon in a fury, he saw his father's fiery glare and he stepped back, head hung once again.

"Bah, control your bastard, Stark, before I have the runt taught some manners, this is the south," chastised Walder in a sneer. "Your northern barbarisms won't be tolerated here, heh."

Jon gritted his teeth in an attempt to hold his silence, his mind spinning at the sound of Arya's choked cries. He snapped from his flurried thoughts as he heard his father speak at long last.

"Lord Walder," Eddard spoke addressing the frail Lord calmly. "I ask your forgiveness for the breaking of guest rights by my daughters direwolf, a custom you must know is more sacred to the North than any Kingdom, I also ask forgiveness for my son's curt tongue," he paused, turning to Ser Meryn. "And for your injuries, Ser Meryn. I hope you can see amends with having taken the direwolf's life."

"Amends?" Spat Ser Meryn, relinquishing his hold on his forearm to hold it out for all to see. "My sword arm, that ravenous beast bit my sword arm! I'll have amends made when I see all those creatures put down!"

"So be it," called Walder, obviously hoping to be down with the whole affair. "I'll give the order to my men."

"You've taken the life of a young girls pet, Ser," cut in Eddard stiffly, gaze fixed on Trant. "The taking of the other wolves lives is a drastic means to make amends. I ask you to reconsider."

"Pet? A direwolf is no pet, its a beast, a ravenous, wild beast," tutted Walder, shifting in his seat. "Creatures like those are best left beyond the Wall, It'll be done with crossbows as a mercy, quick deaths for 'em."

While Ser Meryn beamed a toothy grin, Rhaegar raised a hand to halt Lord Frey's judgment, all eyes upon the man as he stepped forward, his own gaze studying Ser Meryn's arm. "The other creatures are being kept in their pens, are they not?" Asked the King.

"They are," confirmed Eddard. "Walder requested they be kept as such when not under my children's supervision, as his guest I obliged him."

"And the direwolf that marred Ser Meryn's arm, it was under the supervision of your children?" Questioned Rhaegar.

"Both my daughters and my... _son_ were keeping watch over the wolf while out of its pen, your Grace," answered Eddard.

Rhaegar brought a hand to stroke his chin, his lips pursed in contemplation. "By that account, it would appear the wolves were well within the terms of your request of them, Lord Walder. The one wolf is dead, I shall not dispense judgment within your walls as it is your home and your right to seek comeuppance for the breaking of guest rights, but I shall put forward this question to you, should the other animals all perish for having committed no grievance?"

Walder huffed, his beady eyes looking to Eddard before shifting onto Ser Meryn. "What say you Kingsguard, you're the victim here, what would you have for comeuppance?"

Ser Meryn met the King's visage, the man turning to Jon with venom in his expression. "If those bloody dogs won't pay, then I'll have the bastard suffer, I came upon him with his hand's on the Princess, after all, the fiend was trying to defile her. I defended her honour as sworn to do."

"Jon did no such thing, he lies!" Shouted Arya, she jerked from their father's hold to go forward and direct a shaking finger at Ser Meryn. "He's a liar, liar, _liar!"_

 _"Arya,"_ warned Eddard, he stalked forward and pulled her back against him, silencing her outburst.

"Liar? I'm a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, girl, you dare call me a liar!" Sneered Meryn, taking a half step forward, glaring daggers down at Arya. "You dare question my honour?"

Instinctively, Jon moved to place himself in between his sister and the Kingsguard Knight, earning him the man's deathly glare.

"You threatening me, boy!?" Snapped Meryn, his hand twitching towards the handle of his sword, the subtle action causing those in the room to grow tense.

 _"ENOUGH!"_ shouted Rhaegar enraged, the people of room startled by the King's raised voice. "This evening was to be a night of celebration for the union of two House's. I will not tolerate the spilling of blood on such an occasion. Remove your hand from your steel, and step back, Ser Meryn. That's an order from your King!"

Snarling, Ser Meryn eased his hand from his sword handle, taking a return step to his former spot. His focus continuing to linger on Jon, a hatred alight in the pools of his eyes.

"We've heard your tale of events, now I'll hear the version of events as it were to Lord Stark's children," said Rhaegar gruffly, he nodded at Jon. "Go on, lad. In your words, what occurred?"

Jon spared a glance to his father, the man giving him a subtle tilt of his head approving him to answer the King. "I was watching my siblings as my, Lord father asked of me, your Grace, when your sister appeared. We were only speaking for a few moments when Ser Meryn appeared in an irate state... He seized me by the collar and accused me of dishonouring the Princess, something I never did. I swear it by the Old Gods, your Grace."

Rhaegar sighed, turning his attention to Arya. "And you, young lady Stark, do you confirm your brother's tale?"

Arya nodded fervently as she buried her face in their father's gut.

"They lie, the both of them," growled Ser Meryn.

"Hold your tongue, Ser," snapped Barristan from afar. "The King speaks."

Jaw clenched, Meryn turned away, he held a rigid stance full of defiance.

"As I can see you deny the Stark's side of this ill tale, would you have me summon my sister to recount her tale of events, Ser Meryn?" Asked Rhaegar. "Will she second your account?"

Ser Meryn continued to look away, unanswering.

Rhaegar blew a heated sigh, his gaze shifting onto Jon, there was a look of regret in the man's expression that Jon felt was genuine.

"On behalf of House Targaryen and the men sworn to serve it, I hope you will accept an apology for the events of this evening and any harm done to your son, Lord Stark," offered Rhaegar.

"Harm to the bastard?" Scoffed Walder, a gaggle of choked coughs following his words. "It's not as though a trueborn son was harmed, heh."

Rhaegar ignored the Lord of the Crossing, his amethyst gaze hard set on Eddard.

"As Lord of House Stark I accept your apology on behalf of my son, your Grace," returned Eddard, pointedly ignoring the patriarch of House Frey as the King had.

"So be it then, we will call the death of the direwolf punishment enough," stated Rhaegar. "To keep the peace for the remainder of all our stay in Lord Walder's keep, I ask your children's companions be kept in their pen at all times from the night onward, Lord Stark, is this favourable?"

"I'll see to it the wolves are kept locked under key," approved Eddard grudgingly.

"Good, and, Lord Walder, as it is your roof we find ourselves under, are these conditions to your satisfaction?" Asked Rhaegar.

"Yes, yes, fine, fine, let's be done with this," grumbled Walder with a wave of his hand through the air.

Rhaegar then looked to Ser Meryn as he spoke to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "Ser Barristan?"

"Your Grace?"

"In the morrow, be sure to educate Ser Meryn on what it means to wear the white cloak, his actions of this night are unbecoming of the Kingsguard," ordered Rhaegar stiffly, he stepped forward to the Stormlander, looking the man over with distaste. "You should thank Lord Walder for his support, Ser Meryn, had he not seen the wolf as the instigator to the breaking of guest rights, I'd have ordered you lashed."

Ser Meryn heaved a disgruntled breath of heated air from his nostrils. The man didn't speak, either by shame or having enough self-control to contain a refute that would only serve to draw the King's anger toward him.

"Very well then, let us consider this matter at an end," announced Rhaegar, he did a curt bow before sweeping from the room with his Kingsguard, Jon took notice of Ser Meryn's scowl at him as he passed by.

 _"Prick,"_ muttered Jon, his foul mood offset as his father came to be at his front, Arya still held in the crook of his arm.

"Watch your mouth, Jon, there's been far too much ruckus for one night," chastised Eddard, his hardened expression softening a moment later, knowing his words were harsh. "Let's see you off to bed."

Jon glowered. _"Bed?_ It's Robb's wedding night, and Arya's distraught. I should stay with her, she needs me."

"His wedding night's been soured enough," returned Eddard firmly. "To bed with you. Catelyn will tend to, Arya."

 _"Soured enough?_ You think all of this is my fault, don't you," blanched Jon disbelievingly, an anger rising in him. "He killed Nymeria! A wolf is the sigil of House Stark and you take no offense?!"

"Did you hear me accuse you of such? No, this is not your fault, son. The wolf is our sigil, there's no refuting that, but what would you have me do, call my banners and go to war over the life of a wolf?" Returned Eddard, shaking his head, the Lord of Winterfell guiding both his son and Arya out of the way as Walder stalked past them grumbling to himself under his breath.

"Nay," answered Jon once Walder was a decent distance away, his glare following the man. "But surely the Kingsguard deserves more than a scolding?"

"It's not my place to punish a man in the King's service," sighed Eddard, he looked down to Arya still clinging to him. "I've to take, Arya, to her mother. I'll accompany you to your quarters where you'll take to bed, understood?"

Holding back a retort, Jon conceded with a nod, the anguished look on Arya's face caused an unpleasant churn in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't help but feel responsible for her sadness. Following his father from Walder's solar, he found the trek to their guest rooms a somber event, not a word spoken amongst them, just the soft sniffles of his young sister breaking the night's silence.

The entire time he thought back to Ser Meryn's smug face in Walder's solar, he loathed the man for causing his sister's grief, by the time he entered his quarters he knew then he would see to wiping that smug look off Ser Meryn's face, he was already bound for a life at the Wall, what was the worst that could happen to him if he tried.

With a restless sleep making Robb's wedding, ensuing feast, and Nymeria's death the events of yesterday, the sun rose over the Twins and cast the two towering keep's shadows over the green waters and the steep river bank of the western shore where shoreweed, lush and green stood out of the waters glistening surface.

In the tall grass near the shore were a hundred or more labourers working tirelessly to erect viewing stands, pavilions, and other structures serving to enhance the grandeur of the tourney to take place. Horses dragging plows turned up the earth as men installed a wooden divider for the jousts, the oak poles of the divider decorated with pennants of House Stark and Frey colours, white, grey, and blue. The planned Tourney would have been of less extravagance had the Frey's solely sponsored it with the Stark's who held no interest or the care for such tedious tournaments, but the King, in honour of the wedding he had arranged, had personally invested coin from the treasury into the tournament, even the prize winnings to be won were supplied by the King.

Although the crossing of the twins had held many tents for the wedding, that number had thrice increased as those looking to participate in the tourney or merely be in attendance flocked to the Riverlands in droves. House's from as far as Dorne had traveled the lengthy distance, the banners of House Jordayne and their golden quill upon a checkered field of two green shades, House Dalt with their purple banner, and speckled yellow lemons were but a few of the Dornish Houses to make an appearance. But prominently, House Stark's grey wolf and House Frey's blue towers and bridge took precedence over the tourney grounds.

Merchant vendors and their wagons came by the dozens, all hungry-eyed with the hope of making a profit, blacksmiths looking to showcase their armor set up shop close to competition fields, steel plate armor, helms and weapons on display and all for sale. In effect, the grassy knolls at the foot of the Twins had become a populated town over night and while it was set to last the span of three days, this intermitten day of preparation also served as the day in which for those wishing to participate could register for their choice of competition, jousts, melee and archery had been chosen as the main categories, but already tree stumps were being painted with circled targets for axe throwing competitions, a suitable challenge for those without the coin to hold armour or a sword of their own.

As Jon looked out from a narrow windowsill of the overlooking keep, he was awestruck by the sheer number of people below, a steady flow of more arriving upon the King's road like ants flowing out from their hill.

"Impressive isn't it," came a familiar voice from behind, he pulled back to see the grinning face of his half-brother, Robb.

"I've never seen so many people," replied Jon, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Hard to imagine its all for my wedding," noted Robb. "Considering it all, a pretty wife to call mine own and a honeymoon of watching true brawn competition. A life destined for betrothal isn't all that terrible."

Jon bowed his head. "You don't regret it?"

"Regret it? Whats there to regret, my Lady by the graces of the Gods has been spared Lord Walder Frey's looks, and I've a tourney thrown in my honor, pray tell, brother, what's there to regret?"

"When you put it like that, nothing I suppose," replied Jon truthfully. " _Speak of your Lady_ , where is the new, Lady Stark? In truth, with how late the night had gone, I figured you to be still asleep."

"I'd not complain if I were to have slept longer, mind you, I didn't do much sleeping last night," returned Robb, he held his hands out to the side. "See me, Jon. You look upon a man now."

Jon laughed, a pleasing sound he rarely did. "It's legitimate then, you consummated the wedding?"

"Aye, and its better than Theon said it were," boasted Robb, he stepped closer to Jon and laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "You know, on the road here from Winterfell, Theon waged there would be a few strumpets looking to earn a few coins during the tourney."

Jon's brows came together. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Oh give the innocence a rest for once, it's me you're talking to, not father," chastised Robb, he slid his hand from Jon's shoulder so he could sling an arm about him, pulling him to the crook of his side. "You're still set on taking the black aren't you?"

"Aye, I am. Father's given me his blessings to serve at the Wall with Benjen after the tourneys over," answered Jon.

"And there you'll take a vow of chastity and never know the pleasure of a lasses honey pot. Come now, Jon. I've the coin, it'll be my gift before you depart, what say you?" Offered Robb.

"What say me? _What say you?_ You saved your virtue, shouldn't I save myself for if I ever take a wife," noted Jon quietly, though he knew he never would, to many ruined nights with thoughts of making love torn asunder by the thought of birthing another bastard to the world.

Robb snorted. "You're going to be a man of the Night's Watch, you won't be taking a wife."

Jon glowered. "I know, but whores..."

"I'm not forcing it upon you, its just a suggestion, Jon, I was against it at first when Theon brought it up in jest, but now that I know what its like..." Robb answered, his sentence drifting off to a smirk, he gave a stiff pat on Jon's back.

"It can't be that great," defended Jon, telling himself he wouldn't show his brother the jealousy he felt.

"It may be better than great," protested Robb, the smirk on his broad face widening all the more.

Jon groaned, running a hand through his dark hair, he looked away from his brother, just what he needed after such a disastrous night, have his brother tempt him with losing his chastity. "Can we speak of something else?"

"Fine, might as well skip to what will happen once the tourneys finished and we set forth for home, everything will change then. I'll be Lord of Winterfell one day and you the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I already curse the burden I'll have to bear to ensure you've got food on the table for you and your men," Joked Robb, his lighthearted tone morphing to a more somber one. "I'll miss moments like these, all those days we spent training together and getting up to no good. I'll miss you, you know."

Jon turned to him with a tentative smile. "Don't start with that already, It's not as though we'll never see each other again. Uncle Benjen sees father every so often, maybe I'll have the chance to return to Winterfell again for a visit, mayhaps you'll throw a tourney in my honour."

Robb laughed, giving Jon a playful shove. "Would you have me crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty as well? Tourney's are for the south. The North has better places to put its coin than in the coffers of Knight's seeking to joust for their own glory."

"That so? And pray tell, where do you see the North putting its coin? Do you plan on carrying out father's vision for populating the Gift?" Asked Jon, ignoring the jibe of being the tourney queen.

"Aye, more noble families to fill the void of the Gift, Gods know we've the land for it, more than any other Kingdom," said Robb. "They'll pay tax to the Watch, but serve as our House's bannermen."

"Father would be proud if you could manage such a feat," commented Jon.

"Mayhaps as proud of you when you take the black," returned Robb, his face looked slightly apprehensive for the future that awaited them. "Enough with the banter, come on, I ought to take Grey Wind for a run, and you Ghost, being cooped up in those damned kennels all night they'll be glad to get some fresh air and stretch their limbs."

Jon's face darkened at the mention of the direwolves, all at once the memory of last night came flooding back. Nymeria's demise weighing on his conscience, Arya's devastation his doing.

"Whats with you, why do you have that face on?" Asked Robb, he smiled at first, but it wilted away as Jon continued his somber expression, worry taking him over. " _What's wrong, Jon?_ "

"The King's ordered the direwolves remain in the kennels for the rest of our stay here," answered Jon solemnly.

" _What?_ The King ordered it, why? Did father agree to this?" Questioned Robb, his voice biting. "This was Lord Walder's doing, isn't it. The old codger. He never liked the wolves since he first set eyes on them."

"It wasn't, Lord Walder. The Princess snuck away from her minder during feast last evening, her Kingsguard didn't take kindly to seeing me with her..." Jon paused, eyes clenched closed, that same weight upon him for Nymeria's demise grew heavier. "Arya had Nymeria out of the kennel, she attacked the Kingsguard in my defense when he laid hand on mine person. Ser Meryn didn't react kindly to the nipping... He ran Nymeria through with his dagger and petitioned for all our direwolves heads after that, the King and father came to a compromise."

"Gods," hissed Robb tiredly. "How's Arya taking it, why wasn't I made aware of this earlier?"

"Lady Catelyn is with her, Arya's distraught as you'd expect, refuses to leave her quarters, I saw Sansa this morning, she said Arya's even refusing to take food," Answered Jon, he eyed Robb sympathetically. "It happened after the bedding, there's nothing you could have done to help."

"Damn coward, killing a direwolf not even full grown, what harm could Nymeria have done him," seethed Robb, he gave a slow shake of his head and leaned back against the cold stone wall. "I was off enjoying myself when I should have been there."

"It was your wedding night, Robb, you were where everyone expected you to be," countered Jon sternly. "I'm the one responsible for this, the blame for last night rests entirely on me. The moment the Princess approached me _I should have_ known better, _I should have_ known bastard's and royalty aren't to mingle."

Robb grumbled at Jon's need to justify the guilt upon himself. "So what if you're a bastard, you're my brother too. You can mingle with whoever you damn well please. What happened to, Nymeria, isn't your fault, Jon."

There was a rush of pride through Jon at Robb's words, but he knew it to be a foolish statement, the whole realm looked down on bastard's, Robb's own sole opinion of him would never change the minds of others of him and his low status. "I appreciate your support, but it doesn't change what I am."

Robb glowered. "When we return North and you take the black it won't matter what you are."

"Until then, I remain the Bastard of Winterfell," grumbled Jon, his jaw clenched.

"No point in sulking here _'till then_ ," commented Robb, he stepped to the windowsill and looked down to the mass of growing tents. "Let's take a walk, see the grounds. It won't do us any good to stay here penned up like Grey Wind and the others."

"What of your wife?" asked Jon.

"She's not my prisoner, nor am I her's, once we've taken a look about I'll pay her a visit afterward," replied Robb, he pulled back from the window and headed off to a stairwell at the far end of the corridor, Jon following slowly after him.

"I should see, Arya, she was devastated last night, I need to apologize to her for Nymeria," protested Jon.

"You said mother's with her, you better than anyone should know that she'll not let you a foot near, Arya, not while she's in the state she's in," returned Robb, he paused at the top of the stairwell and fixed Jon with an imploring expression. "Look, you want to sit and brood, do it, I won't stop you. If you want to come with me and see the tourney grounds and live a little, then come. I should hope you choose to come, I think it'll do you some good to live a little."

Jon reached up to run a hand through his dark locks. "It doesn't seem right after everything that happened last night, with everything Arya's left having to go through."

"Arya needs to grieve, your apology won't help her do that," Robb said exasperatedly. "I feel terrible 'bout the whole thing too, don't think I don't. But it's not as though we can go out there and avenge her to make it all better, now can we? We can't bring Nymeria back to life either, so we suck it up and move on. Got it?"

Jon hesitated, his brows tugging together in thought while Robb read his expression with wide eyes, his head shaking worriedly.

"I know that look of yours... _I_ _hate that look,_ please tell me you aren't planning on doing something foolish, Jon," pleaded Robb, when he didn't gain a reply, he fixed his half-brother with a set of narrowed eyes. "Say you won't do anything foolish, Jon."

Huffing with indignation, Jon gave a slow bob of his head. "I won't do anything _foolish_."

"Good, mayhaps you've something between those ears after all, not just a pretty face," joked Robb relieved, the seriousness that had captivated him a moment ago evaporating away. "Come on then, let's go down and walk the grounds, see what all the fuss for these tournaments are about."

Jon relented, following Robb's lead through the twins, the two companions stepping out of the keep's gate only to find themselves facing the tourney grounds. Immediately they were swept up in a crowd of smallfolk just as eager as Robb to browse the tourney grounds. Although it was no later than midday, men sloshed on pints of ale stumbled aimlessly about, both Jon and Robb pulling a face as they watched a man hurl the contents of his stomach down the front of his tunic.

"Drunkards," noted Jon gruffly, his nose wrinkling at the foul smell of bile that wafted about the maze of tents they found themselves navigating through.

"Its the tourney grounds. Its to be a place of festivity and fun, something you'd do well to learn about," defended Robb, coming to a halt at the edge of the jousting pitch where half a dozen men raked the ploughed dirt, turning it over once more to soften it for the Knight's to be unseated from their saddle. "Ser Rodrik said Jory will be participating in the joust."

"I didn't know, Jory jousted," replied Jon.

"It's not too hard a thing to pick up, all one needs is a lance and some armour, Jory has both," said Robb. "I imagine it must be thrilling, landing a hit, knocking another man from his steed."

"You sound as though you want to participate," commented Jon.

"If father hadn't forbidden me from doing so I'd gladly have sought to compete," answered Robb. "I'd crown my lady Queen of Love and Beauty, and in return, mayhaps she would gift me some favours in our bed."

 _"Favours?"_ Questioned Jon.

Robb smirked. "Don't you ever listen to Theon when he speaks about the brothels, what the women there can do with their mouth?"

Jon shrugged, clueless when it came to the acts of more dubious intimacy. Had he cared to actually listen to Theon regale him and Robb with the tales of his sexual conquests, he might have been more keen to end the conversation with Robb early.

"They can take your whole manhood in mouth," Robb supplied fondly, a laugh escaping him. "Do you think a Lady would be so... Willing?"

"Being that she's not a whore?" Ventured Jon, he shook his head. "How am I to know?"

Robb smirked. "You should know, it's why we're here after all."

Jon brows furrowed together. "Here... Where?"

Nonchalantly, Robb bounced his brows suggestively in a direction behind his half-brother, the dark haired bastard grudgingly turning about to find, Theon Greyjoy, a lopsided grin out on display, his arm hoisted around the shoulder of a women kissed by fire, her long copper hair hanging in curls that hung over a busty set of breasts that looked to spill out from the corsette that held them contained, Jon recalled the girls name as Ros, and knew she worked at an establishment Theon was known to frequent in Wintertown, an establishment that offered cheap ale and women.

"Ah, there you two are, was beginning to think our dear bastard had lost the nerve," called out Theon, he pulled back his slung arm from the girl's shoulder, only to deliver a firm swat to her backside. "Tenderized her for you, Snow. Shouldn't have any trouble getting in with that tiny cock of yours!"

Jon watched as the girl's lips curved at the ends to form a smile, clenching his jaw, he looked to Robb from over his shoulder. "What is this?"

"You didn't tell him?" Questioned Theon, snorting in amusement.

Robb rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Jon's heated glare.

"Bunch of women you are," jided Theon, turning to Jon with a grin. "It's fine, Snow. Go on and get your prick wet already, my fair _lady_ here has traveled all this way South heading for the capital and has graciously decided to stop here for the taking of a bastards chastity, you don't want to go and disappoint her now, do you?"

Jon seethed, taking a step to leave. "I'm returning to the Keep."

Robb lunged forward to hold Jon in place. "Hold up for just a moment, look I get it, Jon. You're a bastard, but you've still got honour, I get it, of course I do. But you'll be a brother of the Watch soon enough, you won't have another chance to be with a woman again."

Tensing under his brother's grasp, Jon grudgingly turned his focus back onto the redhead, he couldn't deny her beauty or her noticeable attributes on display, nor could he deny the vows of the Watch would steal any chance he had in losing the virtue of his chastity, but something in the girl's eye told him this wasn't by her idea. "... She doesn't seem to be wanting me."

Ros' let loose an angelic laugh that filled the tourney grounds like music, she spared a glance to Theon before looking to Jon with a fluttering of her eyelashes. "Oh, I do, m'Lord, handsome man such as yourself, I'd almost do it for free."

Her words were suggestive and It didn't go unnoticed by Jon when Theon slipped a few coins into the girl's palm furthering his displeasure with the situation. He opened his mouth to decline, but he froze when he took notice of a girl with sable hair and olive complexion appearing from between a gap of two tents, her dark eyes watching the proceedings of Jon and his companions closely.

When Robb looked to speak again, Jon hurried to cut him off, recognizing the newcomer then as apart of the Princess' entourage who had sat beside the girl during the King's welcoming feast.

Apprehensively, the girl Jon figured to be Dornish stepped forward with confidence, garnering her the focus of all those present. "Forgive my intrusion, but I seek a... _Jon Snow?"_

Theon let a smirk shift across his lips. "Arranged for your own lass to hump then have you, Snow?"

Jon scowled, shooting Theon a glare that surprisingly made his father's ward shut up, though the Iron Islander's smirk didn't vanish.

"I am not a whore," snapped the Dornish girl at once, a fury trembling in her voice. "I am, Lady Myria, heir to House Jordayne!"

The smirk finally fell from Theon's face, the young man appearing reproachful for his brusque comment, but it was Robb who sought to repair any grievances made.

"Please, my Lady, take no offense to my companions comment, politeness and common courtesy are not traits he possesses," mediated Robb, he stepped to Jon's side with a hand on his shoulder once more. "This here is, Jon Snow, the one you seek."

Myria's gaze shifted to Jon, her eyes washing over him as if it was a visual judgment of his character and appearance. Given his current predicament, he felt as though he wouldn't be receiving a passing grade.

"May we speak alone, Jon Snow?" Asked Myria.

"Of course he will, my Lady," interjected Robb, he gave a sturdy slap of support to Jon's shoulder before turning to Theon and his mistress. "Mayhaps you lot can show me where the meads being kept?"

"That thirsty from last night are you?" Joked Theon, dismissing the Dornish Lady's presence once more. "I'll show you to the tent, but first rounds on you, Lord Stark."

Robb laughed a hearty sound, the auburn hair of his head alight with the morning sun bearing down on him. He delivered a nod to Jon as he prowled to Theon's side, the two men and the woman of Wintertown's brothel pacing away from the jousting pitch.

Watching as they trailed off, Jon instantly regretted leaving the keep as he looked back to Myria, the girl's deep brown eyes locked on his form. "My Lady?"

"I have a message for you from Princess Daenerys," revealed Myria, she reached up the drooping sleeve of her emerald green gown and pulled out a small scroll parchment, tied by a red ribbon. "Do you know how to read?"

Jon looked at the scroll. "I do."

Myria didn't care to seem impressed as she handed the message over to him.

"Is that all?" Asked Jon.

The girl nodded, turning to leave a bemused Jon, behind, his dark grey eyes observing her till she vanished from sight into the growing crowd of smallfolk filling the tourney grounds. His focus dipping down to the small parchment he fiddled with it between his fingers, his stomach fluttering with a nervousness he'd never felt before. Heart racing equal to his mind, Jon pocketed the scroll into the waistband of his breeches, not daring to read the missive whilst out in the open.

_What could she have to say to me? Was it my eyes, did she come to know them?_

* * *

**Daenerys II**

* * *

Sitting perched on the edge of her seat, Daenerys watched as her brother did up the clasps to the collar of his pitch black doublet, his silver hair pulled back in braids that ran either side his head, a tail of silver strands tied neatly at the base of his neck. Tentatively she watched him placed his circlet crown on his head, shifting to stand before her in all his glory as King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Why have you dressed so?" Asked Daenerys at last.

"I am to tour the grounds of the tournament with Lord Stark, and Lord Frey to ensure the competition pitches are ready for the morrow," answered Rhaegar, he strode to the foot of his bed where a chest sat, her brother lifting its lid to retrieve a belted sword sheathed in a black leather scabbard, its golden hilt was of two spread wings with the pommel the head of a golden dragon with two small ruby eyes.

"And the sword?"

"All to look a part," provided Rhaegar, fastening the belt around his waist.

"What of me then, why did you summon me here? To accompany you?" She inquired.

Rhaegar shook his head, his violet eyes drifting to meet her own. "To speak."

"To speak of what?"

"Your escapade the prior evening," said Rhaegar. "You slipped from your watcher, we've discussed this countless times, Dany. The Kingsguard are there for your protection."

"I grew tired of old men attempting to kiss my hand, and tell me of my beauty," commented Daenerys. "Did you expect me to stay there all night?"

"I expected you to have behaved as a Princess should, I expected you to not run off without informing your guardian of where it is you intended to go," countered Rhaegar sternly, he looked to her with disappointment, a look she loathed to be on the receiving end of.

"Its not as though I fled the keep and crossed the Narrow did I? How am I the one being scolded, why is Ser Alliser not reprimanded for laying hand on me? Had he not dragged me away I may have stopped what occurred last evening," she protested.

"Given your last few excursions into the capital without the Kingsguard, I gave them explicit orders that if you were found sneaking about they were to control you by any means," her brother countered, he shook his head with a sigh. "You aren't some lowborn girl who can run off as she pleases, Dany. You're a Princess, and while you seem naive to see it, there are men in this realm that would take great pleasure in seeing you harmed or worse. I won't have it, I can't lose you."

While his love for her was endearing, it wasn't what she wanted to hear. "Would it have been any different had I slipped Ser Alliser's watch and gone to my quarters instead of the courtyard, or would Ser Alliser have dragged me from bed too?" She asked, hoping he might see reason to how ridiculous it was to have to be restrained simply for wanting to go where she wanted.

"If you had chosen to retire to your room last night, that I could have expected, _that_ I would have _respected._ Mayhaps then I'd have words with Ser Alliser for dragging you from your slumber. Yet that isn't what transpired did it, instead my sister chose to run off and be cause to the killing of a young girl's pet," scolded Rhaegar, she knew it was coming from the moment he had sent for her, she just didn't think it would have taken this long to get to it.

"The killing of the wolf wasn't my intention, it was Ser Meryn who swung the sword, even as I begged him to release Lord Stark's bastard, it was Meryn's handling of the Northman that caused the wolf to attack," Daenerys defended. "If it wasn't for Ser Meryn, none of it would have happened."

"You had no business speaking with Stark's bastard in the first place, had you not sneaked away, Ser Meryn and Ser Alliser wouldn't have had to find you," Rhaegar retorted sternly. "Your actions placed Ser Meryn there."

"Are you scolding me for the death of a direwolf or having spoken to Lord Stark's bastard?" Asked Daenerys, her voice raised.

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed, there was an eery pause in which he mulled the words he chose to speak next carefully. "Why did you speak to him?"

"So this is about _him_ ," replied Daenerys softly, her interest for the bastard piqued. "What is it about _him_ you find so intriguing, I saw his eyes, I noticed nothing familiar in them..."

If Rhaegar was aware she let her words hang like bait upon a fishing line, he did not notice as he bit. "You spoke to him of his eyes?"

"I did, he tried to hide them from me," she answered.

Rhaegar's demeanor changed at once, his blank face morphing to one of a keen interest he couldn't hide. "He knows."

"Know's what?" Pried Daenerys.

"Whose eyes his resemble," murmured Rhaegar, so quiet she barely heard. "I'm not the only one to have noticed them then."

Blowing out a heated breath as she struggled to understand her brother's mind, Daenerys stood from her seat. "Who is, Jon Snow?"

Rhaegar pivoted so his back was to her. "The Bastard of Winterfell."

Daenerys eyes narrowed, her brother's airy tone suggesting he didn't believe his own words. "I know that."

"Then there's naught else to speak of if you know it," returned Rhaegar, striding to the door of his room, hand pausing on its latch. "Now, in light of last night I have decided to take Ser Meryn as my guard and have ordered Ser Barristan to keep watch of you for the rest of our stay here. I trust you will give the Lord Commander no issue."

Rising to her feet, Daenerys nodded. "I won't."

"Then we shall speak again this evening over dinner," said Rhaegar, turning the latch, he stepped out.

Following him out, Daenerys waited for Rhaegar and Ser Meryn to turn the corner of the outside hall before turning to meet Ser Barristan and her ladies, her eyes quick to find Myria's.

"Princess," greeted Myria. "Mayhap's we shall walk the keep, take in the crossing?"

"Such a lovely day, how could I refuse," said Daenerys knowingly, she looked to Barristan. "Will you permit our walk of leisure, Ser Barristan?"

"Its been some time since I've had the grace of daylight, my Princess," Barristan said approvingly. "By your lead, I will follow."

"Thank you, Ser," returned Daenerys, she joined Myria ahead, leaving Desmera as a buffer between them and the lurking Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "I take it you found him?"

"Found, and message delivered, my Princess," informed Myria quietly. "When you had mentioned the North's bastards were handsome, you did not say they were so... _handsome._ "

Daenerys raised a brow, a slight tinge of red on her cheeks. "Is he?"

Myria giggled. "You pretend to have forgotten?"

"Who says I'm pretending, he has the look of a northerner, there's naught more than that," answered Daenerys simply.

"Ah, I see, then you shouldn't care to the sort of company I found him in," noted Myria lightly.

Daenerys wanted to resist the impulse to ask, alas she needed to know, putting it off to the interest that her brother stoked in her for the northern bastard. "... What sort of company does this, Jon Snow keep?"

"But it should not matter, he is just a man with the look of a northerner," teased Myria, relenting only when Daenerys cast her a scathing glare. "He was with his trueborn brother, the one who wed and the Greyjoy ward... As well as a woman I presume to be of a less than reputable occupation."

Daenerys' sculpted brows jumped in surprise. "He was with a whore?"

"Not in the act with one, but there was discussion of it, _him and her,_ " revealed Myria. "She was quite pretty despite the sack she wore."

Daenerys held her chin high, hoping to come off as uncaring to the news, not that it bothered her, did it? Why should it, she was betrothed to a trueborn son of a Great House, as much as she hated to think on that looming prospect.

"Do you pray tell what the message you wrote for him was?" Asked Myria as they found themselves descending a narrow stairwell.

"I don't," replied Daenerys stiffly. "It's insignificant now. I doubt me and this _whoring,_ Jon Snow, shall ever speak again."

Myria didn't seem the least bit convinced, yet kept her silence all the same. Knowing to push the Princess on such a subject would only make the silver-haired beauty more recluse to speak about it in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for this chapter, forgive me, I know not what I do wrong lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading and let me know what you think. Until next time!


	5. A Tourney at the Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tourney begins, and not all is as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been in the works for some time, and is hefty in the word count, so grab a coffee and a blanket folks!
> 
> I want to thank MSquared79 for helping me work the kinks out on this, and for feeding me suggestions to become a better writer. I highly suggest to you all that you check out MSquared79's work, once you start you may not be able to stop reading till you're caught up. 
> 
> I would also like to thank everyone who took the time to leave a comment on the last chapter, drop a kudos and bookmark this fic! You have all been so great! That said, let's get right into it.

* * *

_**A Clash of Vows** _

_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Five: A Tourney at the Twins**

* * *

  **Jon VI**

* * *

Yawning into a balled fist, Jon slumped into an open bench in the Twins Great Hall, torches and a candle mounted chandelier providing the space with flickering light. It was a stark contrast to the stunning morning light he had witnessed shining through the keeps narrow windows on his way to break his fast.

Around him picking hungrily away at platters of eggs, freshly baked bread, and fruits, sat an array of faces he found to be unfamiliar, and quite honestly, after having been centre to Robb in collusion with Theon and their devious attempt to have him bed Ros of Wintertown, the less familiar faces suited him fine.

At least with strangers, he might leave the Twins with some honour intact; at least with strangers, he stood a greater chance of returning North without the Princess and King thinking him a scoundrel.

 _The Princess._ The thought of her title alone brought cause for his stomach to do a churn, the message her handmaiden had slipped him at the Tourney grounds still tucked away in the waistband of his breeches.

It was too precious to leave in his quarters unattended where someone snooping could find it; no instead it sat there nestled like a thorn against his hip, pricking at him relentlessly to read it fully, something he nearly did after turning over restlessly in the night. He had broken down by dim candlelight and unfurled its crisp paper, his eyes trailing his name sprawled in elegant cursive, his name written by the tip of an ink-dipped quill guided by the hand of the Princess.

He had faltered in that moment. Seeing his name was enough, whatever words were to have followed couldn't possibly be as sweet than knowing a Princess knew his bastard name, and so he had rolled it back up, either too afraid or too nervous to see what else she wrote. One day he would find the courage he told himself, possibly in the morrow or be it ten namedays from now as he sat haunched at a battlement, frostbitten and bitter at the Wall, he'd find the courage someday.

Jumping with startled surprise as a plate was dropped down in front of him on the table, Ser Rodrik's grinning face and striking white whiskers came to sight as the man fell into the open seat across from him, the Master-at-arm's dark-haired nephew and Captain of his father's household guard falling into the vacant seat at the man's side.

"Ser Rodrik, Jory," greeted Jon, his stomach rumbling with an inhaled breath permeated with the aroma of cooked bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttered sourdough on the plate before him.

"If you're going to sit here, lad, you might as well be breaking your fast," recommended Rodrik, sliding the plate forward to him. "Dig in."

Jon cracked a smile, muttered his thanks and snatched up a few strips of bacon, the sizzling meat crunching as he chewed through it.

"I've been looking for you," commented Jory lightly.

"Me?" Mumbled Jon, his reply muffled by the bacon, his words a tangle of incoherency till he swallowed and repeated. _"Me?"_

Jory smirked. "Aye, you, lad. I've need of you."

Jon shook his head confused, his gaze searching Rodrik for an answer, the old Master-at-Arms holding his silence. "What need could you possibly have of me?"

"Seems I'm in need of a squire to help me into my armour for the jousts," revealed Jory, he leaned in over the table, his voice lowered. "Hoped you might consider being the one to give me a hand."

"I thought a Reed was squiring for you?" Asked Jon unsurely, trying to recall where he heard such information.

"Aye, Jojen. Lord Reed's son," answered Jory. "The boy was supposed to join us on the road here from Greywater Watch, but he took ill, I had hoped he'd recover before the start of the tourney, though it's not to have happened. I've asked my Uncle to fill in, but he's been persistent in denying me, says he's too old to squire."

Rodrik chuckled as he slugged Jory jokingly in the arm. "Careful now, this old man will still lay you out on your arse in a sparring match."

Jory grinned, turning with an expectant look at Jon. "Short notice I know, but the first tilts begin here shortly. I wouldn't ask if I weren't desperate, so what say you, think you could manage it, Jon?"

Hesitant, Jon weighed the request in a format of positives and negatives. Either he stood on the sidelines fetching lances for Jory when they broke, helping the man in and out of his armour, or he sat in the stands amongst a sea of strangers, across from the dais the members of his family would be sitting in prestige alongside the Freys and Targaryen royalty. By that account squiring for Jory was the better option, however, he was hesitant to indulge the man without seeking permission from his Lord father first.

Mouth opening to provide a reply, Jon found the words die on the tip of his tongue as he saw the stoic form of Ser Meryn Trant enter into the hall, the man's solid form bulked in a set of iron plate armour, a simple white tunic over top. Not the usual attire of a Kingsguard, but the outfitted protection of a would-be jouster. Their eyes met as the man passed and Jon could hear the disgruntled huff the man emitted.

Brows furrowing with vigour to see the man suffer, be it in pain or merely a loss on the competition pitch, Jon looked to Jory with raw determination. "I'll do it. I'll squire for you."

Jory slammed his fist down on the tabletop in enthusiasm, the plates rattling from the force. His face split by a joyful grin. "Hah, thatta', boy. You've my gratitude, Jon."

Jon waved the man's humble words away, unable to admit to the man that he only wanted to partake in seeing Meryn Trant lose. "Think nothing of it, squiring for you before I set off for the Wall would be an honour."

"Told you the lad would do you proud," boasted Rodrik, the largely framed Northman getting to his feet. "Well, with that business concluded, it's best I set off to find Lord Ned, I'm supposed to accompany him and the rest of the Starkling's down to the pitch. You two show these southern twits what true Northmen are capable of, eh?"

Jon smiled as Jory nodded to his Uncle. If the man had any nerves for the competition to come he couldn't see it in Jory's face, though Jon concluded that once you had fought in a war, a real war, even one like the Greyjoy Rebellion, you weren't so nervous when faced with a joust. It almost made him feel a coward that Jory could face whatever awaited him without a care, yet a single letter had diminished him to a nervous babe.

"Finish breaking your fast, I'll meet you down at the tourney grounds," notified Jory, as he too rose from the table. "Look for the tent with my House banner outside. I'll be waiting for you there, don't take to long though, my first tilt is against some bloke from the crownlands, House Rykker if I remember correctly."

"I'll shove this down and be right there," confirmed Jon, hastily picking away at his eggs.

Jory's grin didn't fade as he darted after his Uncle, leaving Jon to himself once again; himself and the weaselly Freys that is. From his peripherals he saw them eyeing him every once in a while, no doubt judging a bastard for having the audacity to think himself worthy of dining in their shite hall. Jon nearly spat on the floor beneath him to show them his care of their opinion. At least in the north men were honest in their opinion of him, but he was quickly finding that here in the south, men judged him from afar and spoke behind his back.

"Cowards", he thought, a smirk almost coming to at the thought of being at Jory's side as he knocked a few southron knights off their steeds, along with Trant, or more accurately, knock them off their high horse.

Hand tightening around his fork, Jon tensed as he heard the soft mutterings of others in the hall, the sounds of benches dragging over the cobble floor as people shifted from sitting to standing. Lifting his head from his plate, he watched as the King's sister entered the hall in the company of her ladies and the famed Barristan Selmy.

Mouth suddenly feeling parched of saliva and the letter at his waist seeming like a sack of rocks, he jolted to his feet to join the Freys in their formal bows to her. Both eyes tracking her as she strode the length of the hall to the head table, he had hoped to see her glimpse in his direction, acknowledge him being present, but there was nothing. A sigh of discontentment escaping him as she stopped to greet a few of the Freys on her way to claim a seat at the table where he found Robb's wife sitting with those he presumed to be some of her sisters.

The Princess and the newest Lady Stark looked to exchange a few sombre pleasantries before settling back into conversation with their respective company. He watched her a little while longer, his gaze drawn to her despite his mind screaming at him to not be so blatantly obvious.

Thankfully, his power of will won out and he dragged his focus away, remembering then that he was to join Jory Cassel. Tossing his fork to his unfinished plate, he departed the Great Hall bound for the tourney grounds.

After a hectic time of becoming familiarized with the duties expected of him, Jon felt at ease as he removed the stool from the side of Jory's mount, a destrier with a silky grey coat that glistened over its frame of hardened muscle. The steed was obviously bred for war but resigned to serve its master in competition as it awaited a war that may never come. Peace in Westeros had held since Balon Greyjoy's ill-fated rebellion, and many a man had never known the bloody hell that was war, Jory's steed and Jon included.

Stroking its elongated snout, he peered up at Jory as the man settled deeper into his saddle, his head hidden beneath a square helm with only a thin slit to see out of. It was by Jon's opinion that it could have been any man on that horse, the only indication it was, in fact, Jory was the man's grey tunic emblazoned with a spatter of white wolf heads, the sigil of House Cassel.

"Lance, Jon," called Jory's muffled voice, a gauntlet-clad hand reaching down.

Hurrying over to a rack lined with towering lances standing in a row, Jon grabbed hold of the first one and lugged it over to Jory. He was genuinely surprised when the man was able to take it in one hand and hold it as firm and steady as he was able to do, even with a small shield held in his other hand, protecting his shoulder and throat from his opponents blows.

Jon envied Jory being able to participate in such an event. His envy only dissipating away when he heard the padding of feet from behind. His gaze watching as a boy ran up to them, beaming from ear to ear.

"Jory of the House Cassel?" The boy asked earnestly.

"This is he," answered Jon unsurely.

"Ser Jaremy Rykker awaits him on the pitch, the match is set to begin," informed the boy. He jumped in place for a moment before bounding away in eager haste to watch the match.

Jon looked up at Jory, studying the man closely for any tell-tale sign of an issue. "You set?"

A muffled laugh flowed out from beneath Jory's helm as he trotted forward between the open space of two tents. The stands were filled with onlookers beyond who broke out into a cacophony of cheers and applause welcoming Jory to the pitch. Jon followed to the edge, lingering there as he looked to the dais in the centre of the crowded stands. The steps from the pitch leading up to the platform were stood guard by the grim Kingsguard, Ser Alliser Thorne, and a few men of the Frey household guard flanking him.

Atop the platform, he spotted Lord Walder to the far right, slouched in his seat and surrounded by members of his family. His bald head shining with a glint under the morning sun. His young wife sitting on his lap. Jon nearly gagged as the old man began licking at the nape of the girl's neck like a dog.

Looking from Walder's public display, his lips twitched with a smile at the sight of Robb and newly taken wife, a grinning Theon at Robb's side, his father, Lady Catelyn and his siblings lingering to their left. Sansa sat covering her eyes with her arm, unable to watch the coming tilt while Arya stood on her feet, giddily awaiting as Rykker and Jory trotted to their starting positions.

Disinterested in the bout to take place, he continued to skim over the visages of those on the dais until they came to an abrupt stop upon regal silver hair, both figures a contrast of colour when compared to the Freys and Starks who surrounded them. The King dressed down in a red doublet with different hues of the colour woven in with intricate design. And then there was Daenerys, Princess Daenerys, he corrected himself. She sat behind Rhaegar in the company of her ladies with Barristan the Bold acting as her shadow from behind.

Out of all those on the platform, it was the Princess that caught his eye in a sky blue dress, sleeveless with a plunging neckline, a sky blue cape clasped over one shoulder and held in place by a three-headed dragon pin. Her waist given an hourglass figure by a corsette of light grey thread.

Jon felt his mouth water at the sight of her, her pristine beauty without blemish. He watched as her head turned to view his family, her violet eyes passing over them and he swore he saw a look of disappointment in her expression. _Why? What did she hope to see... Me? Don't be a fool, Snow._

His head snapped to the pitch as he heard the sickening sound of a body's thud, a smile coming to form as he saw Jory riding forward, broken lance held up high as a horse trotted riderless across from him. The armoured form of Jaremy Rykker lay sprawled out on the ploughed dirt ground clutching his chest.

Rushing forward, he took hold of Jory's reigns, guiding him from the pitch as some man heralded the Captain from House Cassel as the victor in the match. Not knowing when the next bout was to be, he spared one last glance at the dais before exiting the competition pitch. A shiver running his spine when he found two sets of violet eyes meet his own. One set quick to look away, but the King's stayed locked, just as they had the night of their welcoming feast. Did the man suspect he'd been eyeing his sister? _Was he eyeing her?_

His muse broke as Jory's shattered lance dropped down beside him amidst the tents of competitors, quick to be at the side of Jory's horse. Jon lent the man a hand and shoulder as he dismounted. Jory's helm was quick to come off to reveal a mane of matted hazel hair.

"Congratulation's," offered Jon simply, watched as Jory scoffed.

"Ah, forget that," Jory dismissed. "One pass is all it took, Rykker's past his prime. I might as well have faced your Old Nan."

Jon laughed at the image of the old feeble woman mounted atop a horse, a lance twice her height held in hand. "I've not a gold dragon to my name, but I'd pay to see that."

Jory chuckled in return. Pushing his helm into Jon's hand. "The day that bout happens I'll let you ride in my place, Snow."

Tucking the helm under one arm, Jon shook his head in amusement as he lead the grey coat steed away. The announcement of the next competitors to take the pitch sounding off in the distance.

* * *

**Daenerys III**

* * *

_"Oh stop that!"_ Chastised Desmera, swatting playfully at Daenerys hands as the girl continued to wring them in her lap.

"I can't help it," she griped with a laugh, taking to holding her knees above her sky blue dress in the hopes of halting her fidgeting.

"What are you so flustered over anyway?" Asked Desmera.

Shaking her head, Daenerys held up a hand. "Nothing, it's nothing."

Desmera looked to pry more, but Ser Barristan by the grace of the seven interjected.

"Ser Meryn's taking to the pitch," announced the old Kingsguard.

Daenerys looked at the grounds. The abundant faces of those cheering met her, most of them holding onto goblets and skins of some alcohol. Leave it to men and their ale to take pleasure in the competition of combat. She took more entertainment from a game of Cyvasse than two men ramming into one another with long sticks and calling it sport, where was the strategy in that? Where was the skill?

Her lips thinned as Trant rode onto the field in his clunky set of steel armour, a shield painted in pristine white held in one arm, a lance in the other. Opposite of him, a knight of House Hawick strode onto the field atop a dark brown destrier, the man donning a faded blue tunic over plate armour spotted with white seabirds.

Walder Frey's wrinkled hand spotted with age lifted up to signal the start. A horn blew, then the sound of thundering hooves ensued, she watched idly as the men rode forward, both missing their lances targeted mark to the whines of the crowd.

Gaze drifting back to the Stark's as the jousters looked to retake their positions for the next pass. For her, she took more interest in the appearance of the Stark's than Ser Meryn potential to take a victory on the pitch.

Earlier she had found herself looking to the Stark's for Eddard's bastard before she found him squiring on the pitch, how careless she was to have let him caught her spying him, but now, now she looked to the Stark's for their eyes. Her brother's interest in the Bastard of Winterfell was not something she could simply ignore, she needed to know. Alas, it was to her exasperation she found none of the Stark's shared the same smokey grey pools that Jon had, the eyes that held Rhaegar's interest, thus furthering her own captivation for the bastard, those eyes taking hold of her every waking thought with the need to know what it was her brother saw in him that no one else did.

She jumped in her seat when a large pair of grey eyes appeared in front of her, probably the most similar set to Jon's she found in the Stark's so far, and there they were now, just mere inches from her own.

Pulling back to the amused giggles of her ladies, she took in the youngest Stark girl, her name escaping memory in that moment, but it was definitely the one who lost her direwolf some evenings prior in the courtyard of the Twins.

"Princess Daenerys," spoke the girl, her voice laced with soft trepidation.

"Lady Stark," returned Daenerys, hoping to come off as less startled than how the girl caught her.

"Arya," corrected the girl, slightly annoyed.

"Lady Arya," ventured Daenerys, realizing her mistake when the girl huffed with further annoyance.

"It's just Arya," corrected the girl, in the background, the crowd roared to life as Trant and the Knight of House Hawick engaged again.

"Well, _'Just Arya'_ , to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Asked Daenerys gently.

Arya stood tall for as short as she was, her hands on her hips. "Jon."

Daenerys good nature waned at that, and she could feel Myria's dark attentive gaze upon her person. "Your half-brother?"

" _My brother_ , Jon, the one you were speaking to before your guardian killed my direwolf," Arya divulged, and absently Daenerys could hear Ser Barristan armour shift behind her as he eavesdropped. "I wanted to say thank you for your trying to stop the man from hurting my brother."

Daenerys sighed. "It wasn't enough to stop what happened to your..."

"Nymeria was a good wolf," interjected Arya, closing her eyes. "And a dear friend, but her death wasn't your doing."

Daenerys breathed a little easier at the young girl's admission, but the pained look in the girls visage made her heart wrench. "Still, the taking of your direwolf's life was terrible. I confess I feel responsible for what happened. I hope you are able to find it in your heart to forgive me for having brought that situation on you, and your siblings."

"As I said, it wasn't your fault. I know what it's like to be told what to do, I know what's it's like to want to have the freedom to do what you want," said Arya sadly, understanding more of Daenerys wish to slip her minders than anyone else she had ever met. "Besides, it wasn't you who stabbed the dagger. It was him."

Daenerys followed Arya's glare to the pitch where at that exact moment, Ser Meryn unseated his opponent, the Hawick Knight thrown from his horse as Trant's lance slammed his shoulder. Looking away as the Kingsguard's victory was rewarded with the crowd's cheers. "Ser Meryn's a cruel man."

Barristan cleared his throat from behind, surely displeased with her choice words of description for his fellow sworn Knight, but Daenerys wouldn't be deterred in her opinion of the man. She knew Trant well enough over the years to have made an informed opinion of him.

"If justice was truly done that night he would have paid for harming your brother, and having slain your wolf," Daenerys said firmly. "Mayhaps one day he will atone, truly atone."

Arya cracked a smile. "Thank you, Princess."

With a smile to placate the girl before her, Daenerys watched her as she went to retake her seat among the Stark household. Her attention twisting to Myria as the girl grabbed her elbow.

"It's the next tilt," whispered Myria.

"So?" Whispered Daenerys back.

"Your northern squire returns to the pitch," replied Myria, smirking as Daenerys tried to look with her peripherals to the jousting pitch.

Choosing to pointedly ignore Myria's jibe of Jon being her 'northern squire', Daenerys looked forward, observing Jory Cassel's return to the pitch, behind him, cast to the side stood Ned Stark's bastard, drabbed in his usual all-black attire, dark hair hanging like a shroud, but pushed clear of his face.

A face she noticed had come to hold budding black stubble along his jaw, and caused her to wonder if it was new to him, had he shaved it prior? She had to admit she liked it on him as it helped disguise his boyish visage, even the stubble above his full, plush lips. _Lips?_

Blinking a few times to shake herself from her daze in which the dark-haired Northmen occupied, Daenerys forced her focus away from him only to find herself met with the all too self-absorbed looks of her ladies-in-waiting.

"Still just a look of a northerner to him?" Teased Myria.

"Oh, hush," hissed Daenerys, looking up and over to ensure Barristan was fixed on the pitch. "You know as well as I that its naught more than mild intrigue, that there can be nothing more, or have you so conveniently forgotten I'm betrothed, and sister to the King?"

"How could one forget," Desmera mumbled, thinking to the Princess' betrothed. "Though in truth, there are far more terrible men in the realm to have been paired with, at least your betrothed is rumoured to rival his cousin in looks, it doesn't hurt that he has more than a few gold dragon's in his coffers... Could make for a fine husband."

"Come, Des', that won't impress our Princess, not now that she's a taste for the north, and not the Westerlands," scolded Myria playfully.

Daenerys flushed a dark red. "Do you two not have something else to pester me with?"

"The Northman the bastard's squiring for did just win," informed Desmera, her hands coming together for a formal applause.

"Can we please refrain with the term, bastard, he does have a name," scowled Daenerys, taking in the pitch once more to view the man of House Cassel doing a paraded trot around the pitch. The assembled Northmen in the stands roaring to life at the man's victory, the name _'Jory'_ chanted with passionate vigour.

"Looks as if the bas-" began Desmera, stopping only to correct herself at Daenerys narrowed glare. "Jon Snow and Cassel will be advancing to the final tilts in the morrow, you should be pleased."

"To watch more men batter one another with long poles? I doubt it," refuted Daenerys.

Desmera grinned as she leaned into her. "Not even if Snow convinces Cassel to crown a certain Princess a Queen."

Shaking her head, Daenerys leaned away from her lady. "He wouldn't do that, we spoke one evening that ended with a hand wrapped about his throat, and his sisters direwolf murdered. I don't see him being flattered after all that," she defended, the next part added more lamely. "What is more, Snow has shown to enjoy the comforts of whores."

Myria snickered, hidden beneath a clasped hand over her mouth.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. "What now?"

"It is nothing, Princess," said Myria, though she divulged more as she weakened under the Princess' narrowed eyes. "It's just, well your intrigue as you say seems to be quite compulsive. I've not seen another stare at someone as you have."

Annoyed, Daenerys rose from her seat, turning to meet her watcher. "Ser Barristan. I have tired of the event, I would like to retire for the evening."

"Aye, my Princess," replied Barristan, he gestured her to a back staircase that would lead them from the dais and back to the Twins keeps without having to traverse the busy tourney grounds.

Thoughts of a certain bastard pushed asunder as she glowered from her ladies constant teasing. She was a betrothed woman, even if against her wishes, it was fruitless to think there was something or someone else out there for her when it could never be. _And Jon Snow could never be._

* * *

**Jon VII**

* * *

After a night of indulging in far to much wine alongside, Jory for their strew of victories on the pitch, Jon had awakened with a throbbing pain in his head. Were it not only a single tilt to spare before the final joust to see who would be named the tourney champion, he'd have loved to slumber longer into the day, alas it wasn't to be as he found himself pulling another strap through a buckle of Jory's armour. Delivering the man a clap of confidence to his back when he finished.

Taking a few tentative steps, Jory swivelled to stand at Jon's front, a half-cocked smile in place. "Should have stopped after the third pint last night, feel worn and groggy."

Jon chuckled as he fetched the man's gauntlets. "You're two matches away from taking the prize winnings."

"The last of the competition isn't going to be all Rykker's," quipped Jory tiredly, slipping the gauntlets on, fingers flexing.

Jon nodded, knowing full well that Meryn Trant stood to make it to the final tilt as well if he won his next matchup, and the man had done exceptionally well in unseating his competitors thus far. Truly, the competition was not to be an easy path. "You'll persevere."

"There's the faith I need," said Jory, he strode to where his helm sat upon a side table and put it on. "Time to see if I have the Old Gods favour."

"You'll have favour with the Old Gods and the new," reassured Jon, opening the flap of the tent for the man to exit.

The following moments from Cassel's readying tent were but a blur of passed time. Jory had ridden bravely out and met his foe on the pitch, the two men mounted under the Riverlands sun made several passes at one another, lances broke and skimmed one another, so many times Jon felt his legs grow weak from running back and forth to supply Jory with his next lance.

In what seemed to be an engagement that would last an eternity, the two men struck one another square on at long last, Jory appeared to falter atop his saddle but held on by the reigns, his unlucky opponent, however, was forced from his steed, a cloud of dust and dirt rising up as he dropped to the ground like a sack of stones.

From the joyous clapping of Jory's win, Jon beamed from ear to ear as he rushed to the man's steed. Grasping hold of the reigns, his brows came crashing together as he saw Jory continue to waver atop his saddle, faintly he saw a thin stream of red draining out from under Jory's shield arm till it soaked into his tunic.

Leading the horse off the jousting pitch to Cassel's nearby readying tent, Jon gasped as Jory slid from his saddle, in instinctive reaction he lurched forward with a laboured grunt as the armoured man fell into his arms unsuspectingly. Staggering back in exerted effort to keep Jory upright, Jon resorted to laying the man down on the soft green grass to inspect his condition.

"Jory!" Rushed out Jon, he shifted the man in his arms so he could free his hands to remove his helm. Tugging it off, he grew worried at Jory's pale complexion, his eyes half open. _"Gods, Jory!"_

"See me inside, Snow," muttered Jory, his gauntlet clad hand clutched Jon's shoulder firmly. "Then fetch me a Maester, lad. I can feel the sting of a wound."

Nodding, Jon huffed a breath as he readjusted Jory's form, in this position he saw a noticeable splinter of wood impaled in the left armpit of the man, the jagged shard running thick with blood. Gritting his teeth, Jon dragged the captain of his father's household guard into the readying tent. Leaving Jory to rest against a stack of cushions, he hastened his departure from the tent in hopes of seeking out the Maester of the Twins.

While the trek from Jory's tent to the Maester seemed all but a moment of lost time, Jon regained his composure as he pulled open the tent flap and returned to the present setting. How he had come to be kneeling at a bare-chested Jory Cassel's side as the Maester plucked splintered wood from the man's armpit was lost to Jon, though as hard he tried to figure out what had just transpired, he was distracted by the rustling of the tents flap and the entrance of a scrawny youth.

A lad probably just few namedays less than Jon stepped unsurely forward, the boy's weaselly looks screamed the offspring of Walder Frey, but non such an appearance that he had a name worth remembering.

"The final match has been determined," announced the boy hesitantly, his eyes fixed on Jory's bloody wound. "You are to face Ser Meryn Trant in the next bout. If you are unable to compete I shall forward this as a victory to your challenger."

Jon looked at Jory, the man's mouth silenced as he bit onto a chock of wood, silencing his pain and his reply. Leaping to his feet, Jon sought out the boy with a shake of his head. "We shall require some time for the Maester to tend to our champion and assess his state, you shall have our champions answer shortly, word will be brought to the pitch if he cannot compete."

Hesitantly, the Frey boy nodded, his eyes lingering on Jory before he pulled away and dispersed from the tent side.

Turning back to the Maester who worked diligently away on Jory's under arm with a furrowed brow, Jon hated that he already knew the answer to the question he was to ask. "How does he fare, Maester..."

"You may call me, Brenett," the Maester supplied, shaking his head. "He's lost quite a bit of blood, even though I've managed to seal his wound. He musn't compete, if he does it will only reopen his wound and I can't be certain I'll be as successful in sealing it again if it should reopen."

Jon shook his head, his fingers coiled to a fist at the thought of Ser Meryn being made champion, isn't this why he had accepted to squire for Jory, to be apart of the Kingsguard's defeat? Looking to Jory, he reached out and plucked the chock of wood from the man's mouth. "What say you, Jory, can you compete?"

Jory, pale and wincing in pain let loose a snort, giving a nod, he leaned forward only to have his eyes roll back in his skull, the Northman falling against the cushions unconscious.

Panicked, Jon lurched forward, gently patting the man's cheek to try and rouse him from unconsciousness.

Jory's eyes fluttered open a moment later, his pale skin clammy and too weak to sit back up. "What's happened?"

Jon sighed. "You're fine, Jory, just passed out is all," he answered, turning back to the Maester. "Given some time, is it at all possible he might compete?"

"It would be folly to do so," confirmed Brenett, the man eyed Jory's wound closely before reaching to his side and pulled out a thin vial filled with a murky white liquid. "He must rest. Milk of the Poppy shall serve him well."

Jory shook his head, he raised a weak hand to swat the vial away, but Jon caught his wrist.

"It's over, Jory. Drink the milk," implored Jon.

"The last tilt," protested Jory weakly.

"Its over," persisted Jon again, he plucked the vial from Brenett's hand and popped the cork with his thumb. "Drink this and rest."

Giving his consent with a meek nod, Jory let Jon pour the content of the vial down his throat, the Northman's eyes glazing over a few moments later, his eyes drooping closed till he succumbed to sleep.

"The man would have died if he chose to continue on," noted Brenett, the old Maester beginning to collect his things back onto a wooden tray. "I shall need to return to the Keep to gather a salve to ensure the wound doesn't fester, I can inform Lord Walder the next tilt is to be forfeit."

"Aye," muttered Jon, he looked to the unconscious Jory and was filled with regret that the man couldn't bring defeat to Trant, regret that he wouldn't see the man who hurt his sister left humiliated in defeat.

Absently he heard Maester Brenett get to his feet. Absently his gaze wandered to Jory's discarded armour and tunic, more precisely the man's helm that obscured the face of its wearer. Snapping to, Jon shot to his feet, turning to the Maester with urgency. "Forgive me, Maester, but it is I that should inform, Lord Walder that Jory cannot continue. As his squire, it is my duty."

Maester Brenett seemed quiet but agreed with a curt nod. "... Have it as you will. I shall return here shortly after I have collected what I require from the keep."

Jon thanked the Maester and showed him from the tent, he listened till he couldn't hear the jingling of the man's chain before pulling the flap of the tent tightly closed. His legs carrying him to the heap of armour next to Jory, he eyed it, having become familiarized with it from his time assisting to suit Jory, he knew it would be amiss to think he could don it all without assistance, but he only needed to wear enough to mislead people into thinking it was truly Jory out on the pitch. The helm, chest plate, gauntlets. His focus shifting to the tunic speckled with wolf heads. It could work, or so he hoped.

* * *

  **Daenerys IV**

* * *

Daenerys looked to her brother, for a man who didn't care for combat or the sight of unnecessary bloodshed, he looked eager as the man of his Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant trotted out to the pitch upon his destrier black as night, the man looked the hero of the day as he wore his bulky steel armour, his white cloak amiss, but he was a Kingsguard all the same. With a pure white shield, he strolled aimlessly in a back and forth pace at his end of the pitch. Daenerys need not be familiar with jousting to know the disgruntled atmosphere around her when Trant's opponent didn't appear.

While some jeered cowardice, the whole crowd at the pitch bit their tongue as a grey coated horse trotted onto the pitch, it's mounter in plated armour beneath a tunic of scattered wolfs. The Northern jouster coming to an abrupt halt at his end of the pitch. Whispers and murmurs of Jory Cassel filled the stands, most still disbelieving the man who was rumoured to be injured would go on to meet his match, whispers of awe and the man's foolishness.

All eyes flickered to the feeble Walder Frey as he sprouted up from his seat, a hand raised up to silence the crowd. "Final joust of the tourney, heh. Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard and the House Trant against Jory of the House Cassel. Begin!"

A lad with dirt smeared about his face ran out onto the pitch and swiped down a stick tied with blue ribbons, a signal to the start. Immediately both knights at either end of the pitch dug their heels in, their mounts leaping forward as they galloped. The first pass came with the tip of Ser Meryn's lance glancing off the helm of Jory Cassel, the two men yanking their steeds about at opposite ends for the next tilt.

As per usual when Cassel came to compete, Daenerys spared a glance to the end of the pitch, yet where she usually found Jon Snow, she found no one. Her quaint care for the competitors at hand dwindled immensely.

Disinterestedly, she turned back at the sound of clomping hoofs, the second pass had Ser Meryn's lance making contact with Cassel's shield, the weapon bent upon impact before breaking, a thousand splintered pieces of wood flying out in every direction.

The crowd bursting with energy at the display. A pause in the match ensued as Trant readied himself with a new lance, at the opposing end, she watched as the dark grey horse of the Stark man jostled in eager anticipation for the third tilt.

"At last a joust worthy of your wedding," she heard Theon Greyjoy say as he leaned over to Robb Stark.

She nearly applauded Robb Stark's half-hearted smile in return, for once she found the man similarly uncaring for competition, though she would be daft to think it was not without Cassel having suffered what many suspected to be a crippling blow in the last tilt. Daenerys turned back to the pitch as the crowd's cheering came back in full audible force, the next tilt having already started.

Mounds of ploughed dirt thrown up beneath the horseshoe hoofs of the destriers. Both men making a clear connected impact against one another's shield, their lances breaking with fractured wood.

Trotting to either end of the pitch, both still seated on their mounts, they rearmed with new lances. Around them the crowd got to their feet with deafening cheers, some whistling, some hooting, and some waving sticks tied with ribbons that brought the stands to life.

The competition grounds fell quiet as rapt attention gripped the audience when the young Frey boy ran onto the pitch and swiped his flag down, signalling the start of the next pass. All eyes fixated upon the lance point of the two jousters as they rode toward each other. A sharp inhale of sucked in breath was taken by many as the crowd watched in near deathly silence as Trant's lance held slightly askew missed Cassel's form as they came to meet, however, the Northman, slouching forward in his saddle caught Trant in the chest plate just beneath the man's shield.

Ser Meryn gave out an audible grunt as he was thrown back from his saddle, his right foot tangled in his stirrup, dragging him along the dirt pitch as he fell from his horse. His lance and shield thrown aside.

Cursing and scowls were the main reaction from the crowd, many gold dragon's switching hands as the Northerner rounded the end of the pitch and trotted about to come and stand at the dais that hosted her brother, the Frey's and the Stark's.

Robb Stark, beaming like he had won the joust himself, shot from his seat, a hand held up to bring silence to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've our tourney’s champion! Jory of the House Cassel!"

The crowd cheered, even those who had lost their bets joined in, Daenerys noted. Even she clapped for the man, of all the Kingsguard who wore the white cloak in her brother's service, Ser Meryn Trant was the least worthy man in the order, his sneers and cold demeanour had not garnered her favour over the years, and seeing him dismounted was a pleasing sight.

Her gaze returned to the sight at hand as Robb Stark strode to the side of the dais where a wreath of the flowers sat prettily upon a podium topped with a velvet cushion.

Holding it up overhead so the crowd could see, Robb flashed a smile. "As is tradition, what fair Lady shall your victory be dedicated to? Who is the tourney's Queen of Love and Beauty?"

While many suspected the faithful bannerman of House Stark to bestow the crown of flowers to the heir of Winterfell's newly taken bride, many gasped as the man's lance pointed to the back row of seats on the dais.

Daenerys herself needed to look behind her to see if some fair beauty lurked in her shadow, but there was no to be found but Ser Barristan, her face flushing a beet red as the realization set in that she was the man's chosen Queen. Looking to Robb she saw the vacant expression on his face before he a forced smile to view, a hand gesturing out in her direction.

"Princess Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the tourney at the Twins, Queen of Love and Beauty!" Announced Robb, he gave a sweeping motion with his free hand for her to join him.

Hesitantly, Daenerys rose from her seat, her amethyst pools shifting to her brother, his mouth set in a firm line. She could feel the intense gaze of those around her, she swallowed dryly as she came to stand in front of Robb Stark, the young man raising the garland over her before placing it gingerly upon her head.

There was a slow clapping at first started by Ser Barristan who smiled at her from Rhaegar's side, but as soon as Rhaegar himself began clapping the whole crowd joined in, cheers and the thunder of colliding hands erupted throughout the pitch, shaking the very foundation of the observation stands. The rambunctious celebration only ceasing when a boar of a man dressed in a dark navy blue robe, and the linked chain of the citadel dangling about his thick neck rushed across the competition field to Walder Frey's side.

A series of hushed words to the elderly Lord's ear was all it took for the weaselly man's thin lips to peel back in a toothless smirk. With a pair of shaky hands on the armrests of his seat, Lord Frey stood, one of his sons hurried to his side to provide aide, but the man pushed them away with a scowl.

Raising a feeble hand up to silence the crowd, Walder shuffled his way to Robb's side, his beady eyes washed over her and she felt them linger upon her chest. The need for a bath consumed her as she looked away from the Lord of the Crossing.

"Queen of Love and Beauty, heh, very good, very good," Walder grumbled out, his smirk persistent to keep stretched out over his lips as he turned to the mounted Northman. "Let's have a cheer for our champion, heh, remove your helm and let the crowd know your face!"

A roar of cheers followed Walder Frey's words, but Jory looked to refuse as he pulled on the reigns of his steed to turn him from the dais. To all that observed the scene playing out before them it was apparent the man intended to leave the pitch, but a single look from Walder to one of his sons and the Frey guardsmen who were stationed throughout the perimeter of the pitch shifted in their stance, barring any exit from anyone who might have sought to flee.

"Your helm," called Walder, the Northman gave no answer, his steed shifting from hoof to hoof beneath him.

"Come, Jory," joined Robb, his brows furrowed together as he took a step to the edge of the platform. "Remove your helm."

There was a pregnant pause, but hesitantly -almost reluctantly- the armoured Northerner lifted his hands to his flat top helm, slowly it raised to reveal a head of dark curls, sweat plastering them to the youthful face of Eddard Stark's bastard.

 _"Jon?"_ Questioned Robb surprised, murmuring and whispers spread through the crowd as the Lord of Winterfell jolted up from his seat, a look of anger gracing his face.

"What's the meaning of this!? Explain yourself, lad!" Demanded Eddard, his eyes set firm and hard on his bastard.

Daenerys hoped to slip away, but she felt an arm wrap around her back holding her in place. She wearily looked to see Rhaegar at her side, his own eyes fixed precariously on the bastard of Winterfell.

"Your bastard's taken the place of your man, Lord Stark, he's broken the tourney rules, no competitor is allowed to have another compete in his place, Cassel's victory is forfeit!" Scowled Walder. "And the sanctity of this tourney tarnished by the bastard. I call for punishment!"

Eddard spared no breath for his fellow Lord as he continued to stare at Jon, a glare that Daenerys swore spoke for the Warden of the North as Jon couldn't bear to meet the man's firm gaze.

"Dismount that horse," Ordered Eddard, there was a bulging on either side of his jaw from how tight he clenched it, the betrayal and shame from Jon's action left him standing a fool.

Head hung, the crowd watched as the young man dropped the lance he held, his legs swinging over as he got to his feet. His armour clanking as he lowered himself to a knee. In the silence that he knelt, a string of curses could be heard as Ser Meryn Trant having been untangled from his saddle's stirrup trounced his way from the end of the pitch, a look of absolute fury etched on the man's visage as he yanked off his helm midstride.

"Cheater, and a damned coward!" Shouted Meryn in a rage. "Where's Cassel, I want to see the bloody coward who let this trash joust in his place!"

Jon's head snapped up at the insinuation Jory was responsible for his actions. "That's not wha--"

 _"SILENCE!"_ Roared Eddard, cutting the boy off from his refute. "You will hold your tongue unless addressed."

"Yes, my Lord," returned Jon gruffly, his head hanging once more.

"Such insolence cannot go unanswered, by a bastard no less who has not once, but twice committed offence in my lordship," seethed Walder, he pivoted on his heels and faced the King. "I demand the boy beaten."

"The boy is of my House, I should be the one to sentence his punishment," interjected Eddard, the man evidently bore shame. "I cannot answer for his actions or what lead him to do such a thing, but Lord Walder is right. The tourney has suffered a disrespect by his impersonation. I shall call the captain of mine house guard to answer for this as well, your Grace."

Looking to her brother, she a saw a conflict of his thoughts, to others he may have been hard to read, but to Daenerys, she knew Rhaegar mayhaps better than he knew himself.

"I shall hope to hear the boy out before judgment be passed upon him," commanded Rhaegar, his focus on Jon. "Speak lad, if you've any words to explain yourself, do so now."

Casting a glance to his Lord Father, Jon took a breath before replying. "I take full responsibility for mine actions, your Grace. Jory Cassel played no part in this, he was given milk of the poppy and left unable to compete. I hoped to honour him by facing Ser Meryn."

"Heh, not unlike a bastard to usurp the place of a noble House," commented Walder, spittle flinging from his mouth as he spoke.

"Would you look more kindly upon the boys deed if it were a knight in his place, Lord Walder?" Questioned Rhaegar.

Walder paused in thought. A grimace on his aged face.

"I recall a tourney many years ago in which a knight competed for the honour of another when a few squires had offended another," continued Rhaegar. "Identity veiled be helmet and armour, the mystery knight bested the men those squires served. It was as noble of an act then as it is this day. Your honour to uphold the man you squired for is commendable, Jon Snow, of the House Stark. Alas, it was also an act of deception that shall not go without its comeuppance," he paused and she felt him shift and look at her. "While my dear sister is as both lovely and beautiful as the tourney crown represents, she was regrettably not crowned by the rightful champion," she averted her gaze even though he looked to her apologetically, she could feel him lift the wreath up off her head.

Turning to his disgruntled Kingsguard, Rhaegar gestured to Ser Meryn. "Ser Meryn of the House Trant, rightful champion to this tourney. Who do you name, Queen of Love and Beauty?"

"In respect to Lord Walder's uncovering of the scoundrel who was my opponent, I name his daughter, Lady Roslin," returned Meryn, there was a bitterness to his voice as he shot a glare to the kneeling bastard at his side.

"An excellent choice, there is no fairer beauty than the new Lady to House Stark," called Rhaegar, in turn, Robb stiffly moved to where his lady sat and offered her his hand, together they walked to meet Rhaegar where the King placed the carnation of flowers atop the dark hair of Roslin Stark.

Yet even as Roslin was named the Queen of Love and Beauty, Daenerys continued to feel the eyes of everyone around her, burning like a thousand pairs of hot knives pressed to bare flesh. Their beady eyes peering at her, watchfully, mayhaps waiting for her to react with some absurd anger for having the flowery crown taken from her, instead she only felt the heat of her blood set upon her face, never had she been left so embarrassed. Her eyes narrowing at the kneeling, Jon Snow beneath her, hating him for having brought all this unwanted attention on her.

A much-welcomed relief from the crowd's focus came as her brother directed a hand to Roslin and announced her to the crowd as the true Queen of the tourney. The crowd giving off an awkward applause, most still far to befuddled by the turn of events and far too invested into the fate of Eddard Stark's bastard to truly care for Roslin Stark.

As the lazy claps grew few, tired and eventually null, Rhaegar strode to the short set of steps that would bring him down to the jousting pitch. Barristan Selmy quickly following after him, hand clasped on the hilt of his longsword, the silver pommel decorated with the Seven pointed star.

Going to stand along the edge of the dais to watch as the King of the Iron Throne approached Jon, was the bastard of Winterfell’s Lord father, Eddard Stark, stoic with frigid shoulders as he watched intently every light-footed step her brother made towards his offspring.

"Ser Barristan," said Rhaegar, the sun behind him cast a shadow at his front over Jon, the young bastard focusing ever so intently on the ground. Casually, Barristan stepped forward to Rhaegar's side, the man bowing his head of white hair.

"Your Grace?" returned Barristan humbly.

"I shall require your sword, Ser," answered Rhaegar, without hesitation the Kingsguard -hand as quick as a lightning strike- drew the longsword at his hip from its sheath and offered the handle out for the King to take.

Ser Meryn's drooping eyes danced with excitement at the sight of the blade so close to the bastard's neck that had unhorsed him, humiliated him.

"My King," called the voice of Eddard Stark, a slight tremble to it. "I beg for the boy's life, your Grace. As dishonourable as he might have acted, surely you see death is far too severe a punishment!?"

Taking hold of Barristan's offered sword, Rhaegar turned to look up at Eddard from over his shoulder. "I had said the lad's action would not go without its comeuppance, Lord Stark. I plan to hold true to my word," he twisted his neck back to view the mess of dark curled hair of Jon at his feet. "Jon Snow, of the House Stark, do you acknowledge, that on this day here at the Twins you defended the honour of a man who could not defend it himself?"

Daenerys observed through inquisitive eyes as Jon raised his head, his own gaze matching hers, both seemingly perplexed by where her brother intended by such words, far from the scathing ones many of audience and the highborn's sitting on the dais expected him of saying.

"I took the armour of Jory Cassel, your Grace. I mounted his horse and I faced his opponent, I acknowledge it, all of it," answered Jon, his eyes fluttering closed as Rhaegar raised Selmy's sword. Opening them a moment later as the sword tapped against the spaulder of his right shoulder. Glancing at Eddard, the boy's confused expression deepened.

"Jon Snow of the House Stark, in light of your deed on this day, do you swear before the eyes of the Seven, the Old Gods and the New, and those bearing witness here today, to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect the innocent, be them sickly, old, women, or children? To obey your liege Lord and your King, to fight with the honour and bravery you displayed here today, to carry out each and every task given to you, no matter the reward or lack thereof?"

The jousting pitch sat in eery silence, not a soul spoke as they watched the King knight the boy charged with impersonating and tarnishing the sanctity of the tourney. Daenerys herself felt bemused by such action, surely her brother wasn't mad, but the reasoning for knighting a man, one as young as the bastard of Winterfell was an act of incoherent madness in itself. She blinked herself from her stupor as Jon voiced his answer.

"I swear it, your Grace."

A smile fit in place across Rhaegar's handsome face, the King raised the sword up from Jon's right shoulder and brought it down upon his left. "Rise a Knight, Ser Jon Snow of the House Stark."

With weak knees, Jon got shakily to his feet. The tourney grounds remained as silent as Winterfell's crypt before it broke with the sound of a single person clapping, all eyes turning to Robb Stark, standing at his father's side.

"To the Knight of Winterfell, my brother, Ser Jon!" shouted Robb.

The Northmen in attendance were the first to join the heir of Winterfell, a large burly, Greatjon Umber the loudest of them all, a mug of some potent ale held high up over his head from where he stood in the stands. The rest of those in attendance only joined in after Rhaegar had returned Barristan's sword and began clapping himself.

Throughout the pitch, there were only four people by Daenerys count that didn't embrace the cheer of the moment. Walder Frey, old and careless to the Knighting of a bastard she surmised. Ser Meryn Trant, scowling and disgraced, but lastly, and most surprising to Daenerys, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell themselves watched on without rejoicing. Lord Eddard she noted bore an expression akin to worry than scorn, while Lady Catelyn bore a look of utmost offence, as though Jon's knighting was a personal insult to her very being. How peculiar thought, Daenerys, she idly wondered if they would drink in toast to Jon's honour at the night's feast, the last event before setting back south on the King's Road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been by far the longest chapter I've done for some time. Hopefully, it didn't put many of you to sleep.
> 
> A few things to consider since 'EloimJosh' brought it up. I have the intention of doing a Blackfyre in exchange for Aegon, and I had been leaning toward a male Blackfyre, a bastard line as I know its said the male line was knocked off after Maelys. But a female line might make more sense in the long run, and give some aspiration to empower Daenerys... What do you think, male or female Blackfyre? Can't decide.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts. Feedback is always appreciated!


	6. A Split in the Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Tourney, celebrations lead to thoughts, and thoughts to decisions. The final night before parting from the Twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Last moment at the Twins before branching off elsewhere into Westeros. Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to leave a comment, bookmark and drop a kudos! They are so truly appreciated!
> 
> Also, thank you for the feedback regarding the Blackfyre. After much debate and a count of what seemed to be the majority favourite, it seems I shall be going the route of a female Blackfyre. That said, I have a few names in mind, but welcome any suggestions you might have.
> 
> And, in due recognition for all the help, advice and review of this work, I would like to thank MSquared79 who's contributions make this story better than what I'm probably capable of putting together on my own. So thank you Squared!

* * *

_**A Clash of Vows** _   


_**A Series of Broken Promises** _

**Chapter Six: A Split in the Path**

* * *

**Rhaegar I & Eddard IV**

* * *

If the King's welcoming feast was tame, and the wedding feast rowdy, then it was the feast celebrating the end of the tourney that was an all-out riot. A riot that was due largely in part to the Northmen who had consumed their weight in ale and mead, not that it slowed them. Their celebrations had long outlasted the other Lords throughout the realm, many of them left to stumble off to their rooms or left incapacitated in their seats. It brought reason to Rhaegar's smile as he looked about the hall where men of the other Kingdoms sat tired, and exhausted. Men who had had their fill of drink and whatever propriety they held having left them.

The Twins’ once cordial Great Hall had been taken over by the Northmen by this late hour. What notions the men of the realm's northernmost kingdom had of being restrained gentlemen had given way after the ninth keg was tapped and Old Walder Frey had long retired to bed. Even the musicians could no longer play, their fingers numb from stroking the chords of their instruments, the bards having lost their voices. Though unlike the rest, Rhaegar found the Northmen's merriment to be infectious.

By their lead, even he had indulged in more than a few glasses of Dornish red from all the toasts he had partaken in. From his seat at the head table, he had a perfect view of the proceedings below. Jon Snow, in particular, held his attention. It was the first time he had seen the boy smile, truly smile, laugh even. It warmed him to know the boy was capable of more than brooding, and dark looks.

Rhaegar felt himself crack a wry grin as the boy was lifted unsuspectingly onto the shoulders of a Northman called Greatjon and paraded about the hall as Northern Lords hailed Jon with praise and monikers. Calling him _'The White Wolf'_ , _'The Snow that Trounced Trant'_ and one Rhaegar himself thoroughly enjoyed hearing as it never failed to flush the boy's face an apple red. _'Ser Joust'._

With a pull from his goblet, Rhaegar sat back in his seat, easing into a state of contemplation. He had come to the wedding with the foolish belief he would find a boy having shed his dark hair for locks of silver, grey eyes swapped for pools of violet. However, it wasn't to be. In all those years apart, the boy had remained firmly Stark in appearance, so Northern in his look, the boy made his own trueborn brother seem an imposter from the Riverlands.

After years of hoping he would, at last, be confirmed in what he had long speculated, it had resulted in nothing. From the very moment he laid eyes on the boy as a babe that day overlooking the Trident his mind had run rampant with wistful thoughts of a living son, so wistful he had started justifying them over the years, only to be where he was this very night, half drunk eying Ned Stark's bastard son.

Mayhaps he saw only what he wanted to see in the boy; mayhaps the truth of the boy was exactly that. The truth. The truth being, Lyanna had birthed them a daughter and both had perished in tragedy; _the truth being_ Jon Snow was conceived by Lord Stark and some nameless mother; _the truth being_ there was no conspiracy of some grand elaborate lie to hide the boy from him.

Still, were there not moments that he swore he saw parts of himself and Lyanna in Jon Snow? The boy's nose seemed similar to his own. Having been skilled in the joust could have been a byproduct from either him or Lyanna. But those eyes, those steely grey eyes were all Lyanna, _were they not?_

Clenching his eyes closed, Rhaegar brought his goblet back to his lips, throwing the inebriating contents back with ease. His nose wrinkling as it flowed through him. Just when he managed to come to terms with the boy being who his Lord father claimed him to be, Rhaegar reneged and turned over, convincing himself all over again that Jon was something more. Gods, was he to be plagued by these thoughts of fantasy for the entirety of his life? As the boy went off to rot at the Wall, would he be left sitting on a heap of melted swords wondering what if till the day he took to his deathbed?

Nay, wasn't that why he bequeathed the boy a Knighthood? To deter him from the Wall? If so, it looked to have been of little deterrence as he watched the boy be let down from the towering shoulders of Greatjon Umber. The young Knight then engulfed in a congratulatory hug by his Uncle, Benjen Stark, the young pup, First Ranger of the Night's Watch, and the man who would guide the boy in his journey to a life of black boiled leathers and bone-chilling cold.

Shaking his head, he couldn't help as his mind filled with a mental picture of Jon Snow standing atop Brandon the Builder's Wall, the boy's black cloak billowing against a backdrop of grey sky speckled with falling snow. The image sent a chilled shiver over him, knowing then it at that moment there was more that could be done thought Rhaegar, or mayhaps it was the wine he had consumed that thought for him.

Jostled as he saw Benjen Stark break from the embrace with Jon and join his brother, Eddard at the large doors of the Great Hall, Rhaegar Targaryen chose to slip from the festivities as well. He could hear the shifting armour of Ser Alliser behind him in pursuit as he strode with a swayed stagger out into the corridor.

His head twisting from left to right before chancing a guess and stumbling off to the right. Turning a corner he found Eddard Stark and his brother stowed away in a shadowy alcove engaged in hushed conversation. Both men falling silent and bowing at the sight of his approach.

"We've been in one anothers company for nearly four sun rises, you may desist with the overtures," greeted Rhaegar tiredly.

"The King is due the respect his title gives him," returned Eddard.

"Enough with the false politeness, Lord Stark, you're an honourable man, but even your honour doesn't mask your true thoughts of me," said Rhaegar, he cast a quick glance to Benjen. "Nor do your veiled glares, Benjen of the Night's Watch. I see the way you look to me when you think my cheek turned. I know all too well the slights you believe I've done onto your House. Do not let it delude either of you. There are but two sides to every given tale, but one truth between them. Be it your believed slight to my taking of your siste--"

"Taking? You abducted her, stole her fro--" snapped Benjen, his hands formed into fists but he restrained himself by Eddard placing a hand on his shoulder.

"If you've come to discuss with us past grievances, we will not partake in it, your Grace," intervened Eddard stiffly. "The past should be left where it resides, the past."

"And what of the future to come, Lord Stark?" Questioned Rhaegar. He could hear himself slur the words, but he cared not.

"And whose future does that entail?" asked Eddard in reply.

"Your bastard son."

"The throne shall have no concern to my brother's son," said Benjen immediately "Jon's future is his own."

"A future cloaked in black garments, guarding a frozen wall of ice against a barren wasteland filled with Wildlings?" Asked Rhaegar incredulously.

"There's honour to be had in serving as a sworn brother of the Watch, not that I should expect you to know anything about it. Honour and House Targaryen don't go hand in hand with one another, do they?" retorted Benjen. He winced slightly as his brother's fingers dug into his upper arm.

"Forgive my brother, your Grace, he's indulged in much wine this evening. That aside, he does speak true. Jon's future is his own. It is by mine son's own decision that he plans to take the black," spoke Eddard. "This is not a fate pressed on him."

"Is it his own decision, or is it simply all he's ever known? Raised a bastard amongst your trueborn, no claim to land, no inheritance. He's been raised his whole life with nothing to his name. Becoming a man of the Night's Watch only further ensures he has no claim to your House. If the forsaking of lands and a vow of chastity for the lad is all you desire for him, I can offer him that without having to reside at the end of the world,” countered Rhaegar.

Eddard huffed. "So that's why you knighted him. To give him hope of being a hedge knight in your service? To dissuade his choice to join the Watch? Jon is not a puppet in which you can pull the strings, your Grace."

"He said he'd offer Jon a vow of chastity and the forsaking of land," commented Benjen slowly, knowing all too well the vows he had personally made when he took the black. He also knew all too well the vows of the few other orders in Westeros that called for such a similar oath to be taken. "Are you implying you'll make Jon a knight of the Kingsguard?"

Rhaegar looked to Benjen, the unwavering look in the man's violet eyes was all that need be given to confirm Benjen's belief.

"Why, I don't understand. What's Jon to you to offer a lad of ten-and-five such an honour?" questioned Benjen skeptically.

Eddard, however, was less sceptical from his time with the King, as short as their encounters were together throughout the years. It never went unnoticed by him that when he saw Rhaegar look to Jon, it was to the boy's eyes. _Lyanna's eyes._

"I seek to make amends to House Stark, I betrothed Lord Stark's heir to the Frey's against, Lord Stark's wishes. Nevertheless, he accepted, and it's a match I dare say brings peace and conclusion to old slights. I think it fitting to repay House Stark for the sacrifices of its heir. If by giving Jon Snow a knighthood and a white cloak exceeds what you thought him attainable of, and elevates his status from that of the Bastard of Winterfell, why deny him of it?" supplied Rhaegar. There was a passion laced to his tone, and he fixed the First Ranger of the Night's Watch with an inquisitive stare. "Tell me, Benjen Stark, do you wish the Wall for the lad? Knowing all that there is about the Night's Watch?"

Benjen's eyes were downcast. Despite a storied life in service to the Watch, in truth it was a life for a select few and while he knew Jon could flourish there, his nephew deserved more than what the Watch could provide him. "The decision should be Jon's, and Jon's alone. I'll not sway him differently on whichever path he chooses to take."

"And you, Lord Stark? If I am to offer your bastard son a white cloak, would you intervene?" Questioned Rhaegar.

Eddard shook his head, looking to Benjen briefly, he sighed and stepped forward to the King. "I would not intervene, your Grace, but realize this, although he has _her eyes_ , he isn't _her's_. Whatever you may think he is, he _isn't_. He's _mine son_ of _mine blood._ "

Rhaegar looked to the distance, his amethyst eyes locked on a windowsill at the far end of the hall, the night's dark sky and its twinkling stars in sight. "You needn't remind me, Lord Stark. I know our child rests with her mother. I know it every day I wake. I know it every time I draw breath. The children I once had are gone. I know this all too well. I've lived with this knowledge for far too long to ever forget it."

Bemused, Benjen sought his brother for answers, the current conversation leaving him with a pondering mind of what the two men spoke of.

"Then do as you will, your Grace. If you will pardon my brother and me, we should be getting back to Walder's Hall," replied Eddard tensely.

"I embark for the capital in the morrow, my Lord," commented Rhaegar as the Stark men looked to leave his company. "I shall offer him it tonight. He can make the oath at the Red Keep if he should accept."

Eddard froze. _The morrow._ That was to be it? Would Jon accept? Gods, how he wanted to refuse the man from making Jon such an offer. Yet how could he without raising suspicion? What could be his reason to decline the King, that the man didn't deserve to keep the company of his own son for the sake that the boy was sired through Lyanna's misery? That Eddard would rather jump from the highest point of Starfall as Ashara had done than see Rhaegar Targaryen take in Jon as his heir, as if the Mad King's son hadn't spawned the child through an act of vile lust and rape of his sister.

"Ned?" interrupted Benjen, eyes narrowed at his brother whose face had paled.

The soft flickering of torchlight throughout the corridor cast the Warden of the North in gloomy shadow. The Lord of Winterfell looked half his former self as he turned to the King. "You would need mine son's answer this night?"

"I should expect it this night," answered Rhaegar, the smell of wine hung on his breath, his tongue stained red from the alcohol.

Benjen leaned into Eddard's side. "I can fetch the lad."

Staring at the King before him, Eddard studied the man closely. He could see the man was taken by drink. The man that had taken his sister's virtue by force, the man that had struck down Robert Baratheon and caused the death of his father and brother. The man that had at last succeeded in backing him into a corner he couldn't escape from. "So be it. Go and retrieve Jon."

Benjen gave a showing of acknowledgement by a simple tilt of his head, setting off at once for the Great Hall.

Eddard took notice of the displeased Kingsguard lingering behind the King as Benjen passed them by. How was it the men of this Order didn't serve on the Wall, yet scowled deeper than any black brother he had ever met. Was serving in a pleasant climate and residing in the extravagance of the Red Keep not enough to appease them? Were all men sworn to oaths incapable of happiness? Or was it just the men sworn to serve the King?

Watching as Benjen turn the corner of the corridor, Eddard looked between Alliser Thorne and the regal Targaryen. The white cloak pinned to the ringed clasps on Thorne's armour stood out against the dark setting of stone behind him. He tried to imagine Jon wearing it, after seeing the boy drabbed in black for so long as of recent, white didn't seem fitting. Mayhaps, Jon would see it too and save Eddard from failing to keep Lyanna's promise.

* * *

**Jon VII**

* * *

_"Balls bigger than an Ox I tell you!"_ Roared GreatJon, he swayed at Jon's side, long muscled arm thrown over his shoulder, pulling him tight against the giant of man's side as though he were just another one of Umber's numerous sons.

The Northmen crowded around them burst into fits of laughter. Some spewed their drink as they were caught mid-swallow. Others gagged and choked.

"Won't be the only Knight at Winterfell any longer!" Called Rodrik, his flog of ale held up and out. "To Ser Jon!"

"Hear! Hear!" Chanted the men around him. Even Jon took a swig, thankful for GreatJon's supporting arm that assisted in keeping him upright from the alcohol that fought to have him laying face down.

Fighting back a belch that looked to come up, Jon raised his own mug in the air. "To your nephew, Ser Rodrik! Too wounded to be here with us, but nonetheless, the real tourney champion!"

The Northmen shouted their agreements as they polished off their drinks in the toast, most dispersing thereafter to refill their cups, leaving Jon in the firm crook of The GreatJon's side.

"You've done well, Snow!" Praised GreatJon, breaking away to flop down in a seat at a table. His long legs stretching out. "Lord Stark should be bloody proud. Gods, I might sire a bastard of mine own when my bones return to Last Hearth."

Jon knew the man meant it as a compliment, but the thought of a bastard being brought into the world as a result of him adorning Jory's armour and jousting was not a pleasing thought to him. In fact, while the ale had made him jovial and participant to the celebration of the night, he had been far from pleased the entire evening. Robb had stayed nestled at the head table with his Lady wife till they retired, no doubt eager to share their bed once more. And then there was the Princess. He had hoped to profess his apologies for what occurred on the tourney grounds, but she never showed, no doubt too ashamed to show her face to all the Lords and Ladies who had seen her crowned as Queen of Love and Beauty then disposed of her fanciful title because of his underhanded choice to joust in disguise.

Grumbling a few muttering to himself, Jon turned from the Lord of House Umber and was pleased to spot his Uncle Benjen returning to the Great Hall. The Night's Watchman's black cloak dragging behind him as he strode in

"Uncle," greeted Jon, holding his mug up. "Back for more?"

"Nay, lad. Nor should you," replied Benjen, in a swift motion he had plucked Jon's mug from his hand and set it atop the table GreatJon lounged at.

"Come now, Stark!" Butted in GreatJon. "The lad's won himself a victory this day, a true warrior! Give the lad back his pint, he's entitled to getting royally fucked."

"My nephew seems well on his way to having accomplished that already, my Lord," countered Benjen, appraising Jon over. "Alas the King and my brother have asked to share words with our good Knight here."

GreatJon huffed, slouching back into his seat, face burrowing into the rim of his mug.

Sobering up slightly, Jon shook his head, thinking he may have misheard his Uncle. "Father wants to see me?"

"And the King," confirmed Benjen, laying a hand on Jon's shoulder to give it a squeeze. "Can you walk?"

"I'm standing," answered Jon, swaying on his feet like a thin tree blowing in the wind.

"Aye, you're standing, but can you walk?" Repeated Benjen, he removed his hand from his shoulder and took a step back, watching as Jon took a stumbled step forward. "May the Other's take me, pull yourself together, Jon. The bleeding King's asked for you!"

Blinking a few times, Jon did his best to focus. Had the ale not given him a false air of confidence, he most certainly would have been nervous to know the King sought him out. "I think... I think I'm good, Uncle."

Benjen didn't look so certain, yet nodded nonetheless. "Come on then."

Taking a few unsteady steps at first, Jon found his balance by the time he reached the corridor, following Benjen's lead. From illuminated hall to the dimly lit corridor, Jon's eyes adjusted to the lighting just as the King, Ser Alliser, and his father came into view.

"Your Grace," said Jon, he attempted a bow, but as he bent down, blood rushed to his head and he staggered into his uncle's back.

Grunting at the sudden impact, Benjen pivoted to catch the boy before he could face plant, pulling him up to his feet.

The King's face was unreadable as he assessed Jon's state, but Jon himself felt suitably embarrassed at the mishap. His long face burning hot.

"My brother's bannermen have been plying him with drink," explained Benjen, giving Jon a clap to his back.

"I find no err in his state," said Rhaegar at once. In fact, Jon was certain he saw a twitch of a smile on the monarch’s lips. "There was due cause for celebration. It's not every day a man is knighted."

Standing as tall as he could muster, Jon hoped he came off better than he had moments ago. Especially when he stood at the front of the man who had given him the honour of Knighthood. "I um, thank you."

Rhaegar raised a brow. "Your son is humble, Lord Stark," he noted. "But the gratitude is unrequired. It was by your own action that earned your reward, Ser Jon."

While he personally didn't see his actions at the tourney having been valiant or deserving of reward, Jon gave a subtle nod.

"Pray tell, Ser, has your Uncle informed you as to why I seek words with you?" inquired the King.

Jon looked to Benjen, the Night's Watchman diverting his gaze elsewhere. "He did not, your Grace."

"Then it is on me to profess thy reason," responded Rhaegar softly. "Having learned of your intent to take the vows of the Night's Watch and having witnessed your capacity for honour, I have concluded you would make for an exemplary Knight in the Kingsguard order."

Despite the haze of alcohol that clouded his mind, Jon heard the King clearly. The word Kingsguard echoing in his ears. "Pardon, your Grace... You must be mistaken."

 _"Mistaken?"_ Countered Rhaegar lightly. "How so?"

"I'm no Kingsguard, your Grace," supplied Jon, he looked to his father and Benjen as if requesting their help in telling the King he was unworthy of such distinction.

"You are set to take the black and protect the Wall," pointed out Rhaegar determinedly. "Is wearing a white cloak and protecting your King all that different?"

"The Kingsguard is an order of seven men," interjected Benjen. "The Night's Watch is an order of a thousand. There is a difference, your Grace."

"So there is," noted Rhaegar, his eyes locked on Jon. "In regards to your Uncle's pointed difference, do you care to serve in an Order your name will be remembered, or one where it shall be lost amongst the other hundreds of black brothers?"

Jon saw Benjen's scowl from the corner of his eye, but he paid it no mind. The King's offer was tempting. Wasn't it always what he wanted, a name that truly meant something? Nay, it wouldn't be as gratifying as being dubbed Jon Stark, but still, to be made a Kingsguard? One of just Seven men who could take claim of such an honour? Could he truly refuse it without looking back on it in regret?

Desperate for guidance he looked to his father, however, the man's face was a mask. He saw no approval or a disapproval in Eddard Stark's features. Realizing then this was to be a decision of his own accord, he took an unsteady step back, the Princess' message in his waistband crinkling against his skin. Thoughts of her came flooding to him like the dam holding them back having broke open.

Her speculative glances to him over the past few days, her rare smiles she gave her ladies when lost in their company, her silver hair shimmering under the sun. He swallowed, parched. Remembering then the fury in her eyes as she looked down at him from the dais as the King took the tourney crown from her, how that enraged look made him want to dart past Ser Alliser and the Frey guards and beg her forgiveness for putting her in such a situation.

"Jon?"

Hearing his name, Jon looked over to his Uncle.

"You've an answer for the King, lad?" Pried Benjen.

To guard a Wall or a King and his sister. Jon nodded then, his hand absently going to rest at the waistband of his breeches. Crinkling the paper under his touch, he knew his answer before he spoke it. "I would serve the King."

The King's face broke into a smile, the first Jon could ever remember seeing the man do at the Twins. "I am pleased to hear as such, Ser. We shall depart early in the morrow for the capital."

"That soon?" questioned Jon, the haze of his drink beginning to wear off.

"You will have your time to bid your family farewell," answered Rhaegar. He grew quiet in Jon's pregnant silence. "Unless this has caused you to change your mind?"

"Nay, your Grace," replied Jon swiftly, the idea of leaving so quickly made him only think of Ghost in that moment. Was it safe to bring a direwolf to the capital in the company of a man who was to be his sworn brother and had taken Nymeria from Arya? "It's just, my direwolf... I would need to make arrangements for him."

"Bring the wolf," declared Rhaegar firmly. "My family once kept their dragons within the capital. I see no issue with a direwolf roaming the streets of King's Landing. That is if you can guarantee it shall not maim without cause."

"Ghost is well tempered, your Grace," assured Jon, thankful for the King's acceptance of his companion. "He'll bring no harm to those who don't deserve it."

"Then the matter is settled, _‘The White Wolf'_ and his direwolf shall make the journey south," announced the King, looking to his father and Uncle and giving them a nod. "I shall take to my quarters. A long ride awaits us in the morrow and I've still to inform Lord Commander Selmy he is to expect a new brother. I bid you all good slumber."

"Your Grace," bid Benjen, but Eddard kept silent, his eyes unwavering from Jon's form, his expression still indecipherable.

When the King had left with Ser Alliser, the gravity of what he had just accepted came hurtling down on him, the realization of having forsaken his plan to go to the Wall. And for what? A Princess he hoped to look at and a letter he had yet to read?

"Yoù should leave the drink for the evening and retire to bed, Jon," advised Benjen, pulling his nephew from his fretful thinking. "It won't be leaving a good impression if you're left unable to ride come morning."

Jon nodded, looking past his Uncle only to find his father absent from where he last stood. When had he left, how had he not noticed? "What of father?"

"Gone to bed himself I should think," replied Benjen, he gave a half smile and reached over to pat Jon on the shoulder. "You needn't worry 'bout him. He's proud of you, lad."

After recalling his father's stern orders to stay away from the King, Jon wasn't so certain as his Uncle was on the idea of his father's feeling proud of what he'd just done. If anything, he was certain he'd sooner have a lecture and a scolding from his father than his joyous approval. With a sigh and an offered smile for his Uncle, Jon made for his quarters, his mind tossing over with the future that await him come sunrise. Mayhaps it wasn't too late to go back on it. He was a bastard, a white cloak wasn't his destiny. Was it?

Entering into the room lent to him by the Frey's. If a room is what you could call it as it barely held the single featherbed that lay inside with a small side table shoved against it, the side table lit up by a tall candle. Jon flopped down on his back as the room spun around him, whether from the mead he had drunk or the choice he had just made, he wasn't sure.

All he knew was his life was no longer what he thought it was. Months he had pined to serve as a Night's Watchman. _Months_. And a single offer strung together with some complimentary words had him forgetting all of it. Not once had he ever envisioned himself being a Kingsguard, after all. What purpose was there to dream an unattainable dream. Yet dangled before him in temptation and he grabbed onto it, no true thought or contemplation behind it.

Cursing out to the darkness, he rolled onto his side, the parchment at his waist nestling uncomfortably against his skin. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't cease until he plucked it from his breeches. Eyeing it for a long moment, he ran his thumb running over its smooth surface. Exhaling a long drawn out breath, he unfolded its edges. His scrawled name had him hesitating as it had the night's prior. A battle waged within himself till his undying need to know proved the victor in the inner debate.

_'Jon Snow,_

_I write this to you as a means to express my sorrow for the events of tonight. I had hoped to meet you, and in my rash doing so I brought pain unto you and your sibling. For that, I am deeply sorry. Whilst words cannot mend the harm I've caused, I pray it can be a foundation in which I can begin to earn your forgiveness._

_I shall not be apologizing for the actions of Ser Meryn Trant as they would be hollow and without truth. He is a cruel man with a dark heart. Mayhaps it is brought on by his many years of service to the Crown Prince, my brother, Viserys, equally as cruel when given the chance. Had Ser Meryn an ounce of the honour you men of the North have shown as having, I doubt such a grievance would have occurred. We spoke of good Ser Jonothor, a man who would have never committed such injustice. My brother's Kingsguard is a lesser quality of men than the Order that once claimed such House names as Dayne, and Hightower._

_Without some godly power of foresight, I don't know if we shall ever have the chance to speak again, ~~a thought which troubles me given the mystery of you that begs me to solve~~. So in speakings stead, I hope we may write. If word I hear be true and you are truly set for the Wall, I would be grateful to hear tale of my Great-Uncle Aemon who serves as Maester at Castle Black. I have exchanged missives with him before, but he rarely speaks of himself and his past. To know him is to know what those he holds close say of him. Speak with him when you arrive at the Wall, and he will see your letters reach me at the capital if you should choose to exchange correspondence._

_With great remorse,_

_Princess Daenerys of the House Targaryen'_

Rereading the message half a dozen times, Jon felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards. He let his head fall back on his pillow and he held that smile, even as he extinguished the flame on the candle at his side table and sleep came to claim him. He was certain the smile didn't leave him.

_A Kingsguard he would be._

Having slept undisturbed all through the night, Jon awoke with a bounce of confidence in his step, a confidence in knowing that serving as a member of the King's protective detail would bring him more happiness, and more fulfilment than a life at the Wall could have ever hoped to bring him. And while he would be naive to think anything could ever transpire between himself and the Princess in his tenure as one of the King's sworn shields, he would still surely live a fulfilled life if he was able to live every day to hear the Princess' voice. See her smile, watch her laugh.

He halted mid-stride at those very thoughts, Gods, what a fool he was he thought. How had he let himself become so smitten after just one conversation? Taking a moment to compose himself, he reiterated to himself there was nothing between them. He would merely serve the King, and that would be the extent to his mingling with House Targaryen. With some of his former confidence reinstated, Jon pushed open the door that lead him out to the courtyard of the Twins. The open space bustled with servants running about heaving chests into waiting wagons. Guardsmen of House Stark assisting in the loading of goods for his family's own return journey North.

He smiled to himself at the sight of Theon being nagged at by Ser Rodrik to get a move on, both men disappearing through the causeway that lead out to the King's Road. At their departure, he drifted to the kennels nestled in the corner of the yard, Jon pulled back the lock on Ghost's pen, the white direwolf squeezing out before he could even open it fully, his tentative smile growing broader as the direwolf leaped up at him on its hind legs, Ghost's tongue lashing out at his face with unconditional love, no doubt relieved to finally be free from his several day long confinement.

"Down, Ghost," laughed Jon, pushing the large beast off him. Already as tall as his waist, he feared the day the direwolf was fully grown, he might never get him off at that point. With a shake of his head, he crouched down at Ghost's side and took in a handful of white fur.

"We're going to be going south now, it'll be hotter there... might need to find some clippers and get you shaved down."

Ghost emitted a low growl before nudging his side, looking for more affection that Jon obliged, giving a few gentle pats to its enormous head.

"You're really going to take him south with you then," came a voice. Jon cranked his neck to see Robb, his half-brother's wife behind him in the company of her family. It was always easy to tell a Frey from their close resemblance to a rodent. Not that Roslin held the family trait, thankfully for Robb's sake.

"The King gave his blessings," he replied lightly. "At this point, I don't know if I had it in me to give Ghost up."

"For the runt of the litter he's turning out to be just as big as Grey Wind," noted Robb, as he shifted from foot to foot. "... I hoped to catch you alone from everyone else, but now that I have..."

"You're a little lost for words?" provided Jon knowingly. He felt the same, having never had to give a goodbye without knowing when or if he'd see the other person again was new to him just as much as it was to Robb. "No point in dragging it out."

Robb grinned. "Nay, I suppose there isn't," he raised a hand for a shake but rethought it a moment later as he reached out and brought Jon into a near bone-crushing hug. "Take care of yourself."

Jon chuckled as Robb squeezed the air from him, grateful when his half-brother released him. "Same goes for you."

"I'll be in Winterfell, safe and sound. Don't you go fretting about me, Ser Jon," quipped Robb, being sure to drawl his Knighted title. His father's heir took a step back with a nod. "I'm glad Father allowed you to come. It wouldn't have felt right without you here. Though I could have done without all the attention you brought yourself."

"It wasn't my intention," began Jon.

"I'm only jesting," barged in Robb, his broad grin out in view. "Given what Trant did to Arya, I should have been the one to knock the prick into the dirt."

Jon cracked a smile. "He'll be my sworn brother now, you know that?"

"Good riddance, the man might learn what it is to be true Knight with you showing him up," praised Robb. He chuckled as he looked off to the gateway of the courtyard. "I best not keep you. Father and the others are waiting at the gate to see you off. You best hurry though, the King's progression has already set off."

Jon's eyes grew large. "They've left already? _Gods,_ why didn't you say?"

Robb clapped Jon on the arm, the pleased look on his face showing his amusement. "Easy now, Snow. Ser Barristan's waiting on you. No need to soil your small clothes."

Shaking his head, Jon rolled his eyes and set off for the gate, Ghost following in his wake with Robb. Walking under the portcullis, he was met with his assembled family. Even Lady Catelyn stood in wait, which in Jon's opinion meant she was only glad to see him off. Across from them, mounted on a white steed, sat Ser Barristan Selmy, holding the reigns of the horse he had ridden on from Winterfell.

Unexpectedly, Jon was hit by the form of a small frame, taking the wind from his lungs, his gaze sinking to take in the crown or Arya's head. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. "I'll miss you."

"Don't go," she pleaded against his black leather vest, her arms constricting around him tighter if at all possible.

"I have to, you know I do," whispered Jon softly.

"You don't!" Retorted Arya. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Jon winced, unable to break her heart and tell her it was what he wanted, probably more than he ever wanted anything. "Why is the toughest one to say goodbye to have to be one of the first..."

Arya pulled away, her eyes red with tears streaking her cheeks. "Why say goodbye at all?"

He smiled. "How about, until we see each other again?"

"Promise?" asked Arya, desperation lacing her voice.

"Do you take me for a liar?" replied Jon, peeling her arms from around his hips.

"Nay," she mumbled.

"There you have it then, we'll see each other again," he said firmly.

Nodding, Arya retraced her steps back to her siblings, hiding her face from them so they wouldn't see her tears.

If she only knew how close she came to breaking his resolve. Though he knew she was closer to such a fate, first she lost Nymeria, now him, How much more could she lose before she broke? Shaking the perturbed thought from his mind, he followed after her. Jon paused as he saw his Uncle take the initiative to be the next to say his farewell, stepping out from the Stark ranks to come and seize him between two hands levelled on his shoulders.

"Was just beginning to accept the idea of having you with me at the Wall too," began Benjen. "This is for the better. I doubt you'd have been nearly as happy having spent your life there."

Jon presented a lopsided smile that told his bittersweet feelings on this farewell. "For the longest time, I knew I wanted to take the black and become a ranger like you... You're not disappointed?"

Benjen reared away with a cocked brow. _"Disappointed?_ Gods, Jon, you're going to become a brother of the Kingsguard, how could I be disappointed with that. The Night's Watch used to be an order where men went to serve with pride, first-born sons used to forsake their inheritance to serve there, now we accept the lowest of the low and take criminals to serve there as punishment. You're better than that, thrice a Stark even without the name. Known it since you were a pup. You deserve the honour that comes with that white cloak you'll wear."

Accepting the praise as best he could, Jon stood a little straighter, having always wanted to be something, _someone,_ in his Uncle's eyes. "I'm not quite sure how to thank you fo--"

"Ah, don't you go getting soft on me," interjected Benjen with a laugh, letting go of him. "You better get a move on and say your farewells to the others, you'll get a raven from me soon enough asking you to speak to the King requesting men in the dungeons be sent to the Wall. Trust me, give it enough time and you'll regret thanking me."

Jon exhaled, glad to have gotten through the three hardest goodbyes he had to make, counting his blessings that Bran and Rickon were still at Winterfell, his resolve to stay composed in the eyes of his family might have crumbled if they were here too. Turning to Theon who stood beside Ser Rodrik, Jon extended a hand, the ironborn eyeing it for a moment before returning the gesture, a firm shake ensuing. "Theon."

 _"Snow,"_ bid Theon curtly, releasing the shake. If he wasn't to be mistaken, he thought the young man looked _jealous?_

With a faint smile, his focus shifted onto Ser Rodrik, extending the same hand he had done for Theon.

Rodrik grabbed hold and gave a shake so hard, Jon nearly thought the man planned to take his arm off. "I know Jory wanted to be here to see you off, but that splinter he took has kept him bed-ridden.”

“I'd have liked to see him before parting, I shall hope he has a swift recovery,” bid Jon, and he meant it to. If it weren’t for Jory being wounded, he wouldn’t be heading south as he was.

“I’ll pass it along to him. You just remember everything I taught you, lad. Most of all, remember your damn footwork, swingin-"

 _"Swinging a sword is just half the battle, making sure you move with it is the other,"_ said Jon, finishing off the man's advice before he could. "I remember, Ser Rodrik."

Rodrik winked, loosening his grip on Jon's hand. "Then I've taught you all I can. Use it well. "

"If ever required, I will," vowed Jon, he drew another heavy breath, carrying on down the line to his father's eldest daughter. Sansa and her fiery red hair.

With a perfected curtsey, Sansa dipped down before him, her face void of any emotion that he could read, neither joy or sadness at his departure. Truly the daughter of Lady Catelyn.

"I..." he hesitated, not sure which words were best for her until they left him from his heart. "I know we've not been close, but I hope you find everything you happen to look for in life," he said awkwardly, grasping at a farewell that would be sentimental to her. "Some Lord somewhere will be lucky to call you his wife one day."

Sansa smiled at that, her greatest desire was to be a Lady of the South, a wife to some handsome Knight and Lord who worshipped the very ground she walked on. Her face blemished with a rosy blush that filled her cheeks. Tentatively, and by surprise, he watched as she reached for something behind Lady Catelyn, coming back to sight with what he thought to be a folded grey blanket.

"What's this?" he asked, taking hold of it when she offered it to him.

"I started sewing it once you were Knighted," she said, pausing as if embarrassed by the omission. "It's your banner. As a Knight you should have your own banner, _it's not finished..."_

Without waiting, Jon let the banner unfurl. True to her word, it wasn't finished. On a field of grey was an unfinished wolf’s head in snow white, where her thread lay unfinished was at its snarling maw. He smiled. "I'm at a loss for words."

"You'll fly it?" questioned Sansa.

With a firm nod, Jon folded the banner back up. "At every opportunity. Thank you."

Sansa beamed, filling Jon with a warmness he had never shared with her in Winterfell.

His pleasant farewells came to its end as he stepped over to his father's wife, as per usual instinct, he bowed his head, averting making eye contact.

A cold silence was present till her steady voice broke it like a snapped whip. _"Jon."_

"My Lady," he replied, taking a moment to formulate some words that wouldn't draw her displeasure. "As I won't be returning North, may I ask you pass my farewells onto Brandon and Rickon... Tell them I will miss their company dearly."

"... I shall," replied Catelyn.

The cold silence resumed, and Jon was more than a little thankful to shuffle onto his father at last, the Warden of the North, and the personification of honour standing astride from the others, watching as the royal caravan trotted out along the Kingsroad. By Jon's estimate, he and Ser Barristan need only gallop a short distance to catch up.

"This is it then, this is where we are to part ways," said Eddard, the man speaking with his back to Jon. "I thought upon this day for a many years, always wondering what the future held for each of you."

"Was I being knighted and made a man of the Kingsguard what you envisioned for me?" Inquired Jon.

" _A man?"_ Repeated Eddard, his head craned over his shoulder to look Jon over. "I see a boy taken with the regality of a King, and the idea of southron chivalry."

"You still see me a boy?" Asked Jon gruffly, not able to suppress the annoyance he felt at what he took as an insult.

"You were taken with the idea of the Night's Watch, yet a few days and a knighthood had you casting it all away," responded Eddard. "Is it not a boy that switches from a hard path to pursue an easier one? Would a man determined to climb a mountain not climb it had he made the decision to?"

"Is that it, you think me a coward for not setting off for the Wall?" accused Jon.

Eddard finally looked to meet Jon's eyes, his judgmental words crumbling away. _"Nay,"_ he sighed. "Forgive my slight. I only fear the unknown that is to be your place in the south. Our kin has never faired well when venturing in that direction."

 _"The south,"_ repeated Jon softly, he knew his father spoke of his own father and brother, and he hoped to change the subject. Stepping forward to be at his father's side. "I'll be going south for the first time since you brought me as a babe to Winterfell."

"So you will be," confirmed Eddard, shifting uncomfortably as if knowing where the conversation was heading.

"... Is my mother south, does she live there still?" he asked curiously.

Eddard kept silent. His lips pursed into a thin line.

"If I pass her on a road, would she recognize me? Would she know my name?" Continued Jon, growing increasingly irritated as his father maintained mute. "Would she be proud of who I've become... Does she care?" The words came rushing out, his heart catching in his throat as he awaited the reply. Mayhaps now, on the verge of his leaving his father the man would, at last, reveal his mother's identity. Who she was, where she was. If she even lived.

Eddard looked away to the distance of the hills. "Your mother would be proud..."

Jon sensed his father's words were a lie, by his reading of Eddard's tone, something suggested to him his mother would not be proud of him. This hurt to know. Still, he longed to know her, even if she forsook him as a babe. "Can you supply me her name?"

Eddard shifted to meet Jon's gaze. "I'll tell you all about her the next time we meet."

Jon's brows furrowed. "The next time? When will that be? You're going back to Winterfell, me to the capital. _Do you ever plan to tell me?"_

"I do," Eddard replied, he looked back to Jon and there was a torn expression on his face. "Now just isn't the time. I'm sorry."

An urge to rebel and call his father coward rose up, yet Jon held back, fixing to look away to the royal caravan as it began dissipating over a hill. "I should be going, Ser Barristan awaits."

Eddard nodded. _"Be careful, Jon."_

Looking back to his father, Jon put forward an open hand. Eddard looked to it with a shake of his head before dragging Jon into a tight embrace as Robb had. "You've the blood of the North in you, don't you ever forget it. Serve with honour," he whispered into Jon's ear.

"I will," promised Jon, breaking away with a cough to clear his throat. He turned and strode off to where Ser Barristan held his mount. He unbuckled his saddle bag and stuffed Sansa's banner inside. "My apology for the delay, Lord Commander."

Barristan waved the words away, reaching down to hand the reins to Jon as he used the stirrups to climb onto his saddle. Ghost quick to join him at his horse's side. The snow-white direwolf peering up at him expectantly with it's blood red eyes.

 _"The White Wolf_ and _Barristan the Bold,"_ called Theon with a laugh, drawing the attention of everyone. "Sounds like a bad mummers play!"

Arya stomped on the Ironborn's foot, earning her a scathing glare from their father's ward.

Jon smiled at the display, digging his heels into the side of his mount as Barristan took off at a gallop. The two men and the snow white direwolf darting off along the bend of the Kingsroad as it crawled over the grassy knolls of the Riverlands, the two towering keep's and bridge of the Twins left in their wake along with those of House Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hopefully, you all enjoyed lol... I thought of adding a Dany/Jon bit to this, but it wouldn't have fit. 
> 
> The next chapter will feature Dany/Jon and Jon/Rhaegar, so bear with me one more chapter lol.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment and let me know your thoughts, feedback is always appreciated and welcomed! Thank you everyone, and have an excellent weekend!


	7. On the Kingsroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon joins the King's retinue in their return journey to the capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here we are. Chapter Seven. Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave me feedback, kudos and bookmark! You feed me the energy to keep typing away, so thank you all very much! :)
> 
> Now, as it goes, this chapter would more than likely be an eyesore if it weren't for MSquared79's continual assistance! So thank you once again, Squared!
> 
> Before you all start reading, I feel it is fair game to mention in case you want to back out from this. I originally had said the reveal would be featured more than likely in the next chapter, which was the original plan. However, I have ultimately decided to change the route I had initially settled on for the reveal after giving it much thought. I found it could be a bit out of the blue and a tad OOC for the character's mindsets that I've come to create and develop in this universe. That said, I will be pursuing another option that I think will be more realistic and true to the universe, all I need do is introduce something/someone earlier than I had anticipated of doing. 
> 
> That said, Jon's true parentage should be revealed within the next couple of chapters, a pushback from what I had planned to be a chapter 8 reveal. Sorry again, but I think it will be much more satisfying and provide me more time to build the relationship between Jon and Dany which is heck, I'll admit it, it's why I'm writing this. XD
> 
> Okay, that's it. That's all I got, thank you all, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_A Clash of Vows_ **

**_A Series of Broken Promises_ **

**Chapter Seven: On the Kingsroad**

* * *

  **Barristan I**

* * *

A laugh of amusement flowed out from Barristan's throat as he blocked yet another one of the young Knight's strikes. It had been years since he had felt so youthful, his aged body awakening with new life every time he woke at the break of dawn and practised with Ned Stark's bastard. It reminded him of the days of old when he and Ser Arthur Dayne had parried swords with a young Jaime Lannister, a lad just as green as Jon Snow was now, yet just as promising with the blade. With cocked brows, he barely sidestepped a lunge of Snow's sword, the boy's dark hair damp with exerted sweat.

Their steel continuing to meet like chimes of a bell that rang over the encampment, quite certainly disturbing anyone who sought longer slumber. It was a comfort for Barristan to know the King had made a relatively good choice in finally filling Ser Willem Darry's vacant spot, with an ageing Kingsguard, the boy would be the future of the Order when the time came for himself to pass on. It was only a shame the boy's latter life would be in the service of Rhaegar's undeserving heir.  It was a thought he quickly banished from his mind, knowing it wasn't his place to find fault in the future King, _as foolish as the Prince of Dragonstone was_.

Around them as they danced in their clash of swords was a congregated horde of House Targaryen men-at-arms. Most had come for the amusement of witnessing Barristan trump the Northern lad yet again. While Barristan hoped to assist the boy in honing his skill, he wasn't going to let him win at fancy. To do so would give him a false air of confidence, and Jon Snow would never learn. In the shadow of the ruins of Oldstones, they carried on.

Calling out his strikes, Barristan could see Snow furrow his brow in frustration, even with knowing where Barristan planned to swing his sword, Jon was tardy in his blocks and it wasn't long till Selmy had plucked Jon's sword from his hand and kicked the boy's legs out from under him.

Lips quirked at the end with a smile, Barristan drove his dull sword into the grass and strode over to where Snow lay on his back. Offering the young Knight a hand, he said "You're getting better."

"I don't see how," grumbled Jon, taking the offered hand, a gentle tug bringing the lad upright. 

Watching as Jon dusted some loose pieces of grass from his sable tunic, Barristan folded his arms over his chest. "You let yourself be distracted too easily. You need to be aware of what's going on around you, yet at the same time block it out."

"Your advice seems to contradict itself.  How can you defend yourself from unseen attacks if you disregard it?" muttered Jon, peering over to Barristan with a shake of his head. "We've been sparing every morning for over a fortnight. I'll never be as handy with a sword as you are."

"I've years of practice," returned Barristan.

 _"As have I,"_ refuted Jon, though after the boy had said the words Barristan knew the lad recognized their years of training were not of comparison.

"You fight in the Northern style, blunt forward strikes, each one meant to be the killing blow. But the force you put behind it tires you early.  There should be a balance in your swordsmanship. A finesse to parry, will buy you time to learn your opponent, see his weaknesses and the gaps he leaves open. Then you strike with force."

Jon nodded in understanding.

"You'll learn," said Barristan in encouragement, beckoning Jon to follow him with a nudge of his head. The two of them strolled over to a column of stone that had toppled over centuries ago, moss clung to its coarse surface, but it didn't prevent them from taking a seat. "And it is not contradictory.  Think of it, boy, in the case of war, when you're on the battlefield. There'll be hundreds of men around you, each enemy combatant vying to see their sword plunged deep within your belly. All you can do is focus your steel on the man before you. Be attentive of the other threats around you, but you deal with the one before you first and foremost."

"Are you telling me this on the off chance war is coming?" asked Jon, reaching up he pushed the strands of damp hair from his eyes.

"If the Seven are kind I shall not live to see another war," mused Barristan. "The King has spent his entire reign seeing to that, offering others more than they should ever receive in the hopes it brings lasting peace."

"There's yet to be a war since the Iron Islands rose in rebellion," quipped Jon. "Seems the King has ruled well."

Barristan agreed with a nod. "Even so, there are many in the realm who hold resentment against the throne and the man who sits it."

"And who are the _many?_ " inquired Jon curiously.

"When you see the King's court, you'll come to know them," answered Barristan. "They're hard to miss."

 _"Hard to miss?"_ asked Jon.

"Have you never seen a person wear a fake smile, lad?"

Jon looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding, and given what Barristan had witnessed in the boy's farewell to his father's wife at the Twins, it was safe to assume the boy had seen his fair share of fake smiles throughout the years. "I've seen them."

"Then you will be well aware of the abundance you will see within the Red Keep," noted Barristan.  He craned his neck to the side to view Jon better. "As one of the King's Seven sworn shields, it will be your duty to keep an eye of those fake smiles, for it is most likely to be the one who wears a smile to the King's face that at the same time drives a dagger in his back."

The boy looked thoughtful, taking the information in like a grain of salt. "Is there to be no honour among those in the south?"

"Honour has a different meaning in the South," replied Barristan, he sighed and looked out at the camp as tents started to collapse, the start of preparations for their continued travel south. "Like the swordplay, you'll come to learn that as well."

"What of our Order, Ser?" Asked Jon, his focus settled off in the distance.

"What of it?"

"Is there honour in being a Kingsguard?"

"The vows you'll take should ensure it," answered Barristan slowly, reading the boys thoughtful expression. "Why is it you ask?"

Jon shook his head, slipping from the column to his feet. His eyes still fixated in the distance.

"It’s nothing, just a thought come to mind."

Following the lad's line of sight, Barristan shook his head at the sight of Ser Meryn Trant, the man standing guard outside the flap of the King's tent. "You think Ser Meryn to lack honour, is that it?"

"Am I wrong to think it?" Inquired Jon.

"He's the type to hold to a different meaning of it," replied Barristan, rising to be at Jon's side. "Seems we mean to break camp early. Save an aged Knight from bended back and collect the sparring swords."

Doing as he bid, Jon made his way over to pull Barristan's dull sword from the earth, and retrieve the blade he had been disarmed of. All the while, Barristan eyed the bastard Knight of Winterfell. These early morning sessions also served to remind Barristan of another young lad he'd seen train besides Jaime Lannister. It reminded him of the King and when he asked old, Ser Willem for a sword, and of how they used to spar throughout the Red Keep much to the Queen's annoyance. _Oh, to be young again._

Fitting a smile into place when Jon returned to his side, Barristan led them back to camp where servants ran amok loading the wagons. The mounted troops of House Targaryen prepping their steeds with saddles. 

While making for the tent, he, Jon and his fellow sworn brothers shared, Barristan noticed his young companion falter in his footing. The boy coming to a halt a few paces back.

Eyeing him closely, Barristan followed the lad's gaze once more. For a youth that tended to be reserved in speech, and his thoughts hidden within, the boy's steely eyes betrayed him often. As he expected, he found the boy to be observing the King's sister in the company of her ladies. This was not the first time he caught the lad spying her, nor did he doubt it to be the last, but as he had with Ashara in keeping his affections from being known, he felt the need to advise the boy in doing the same.

"They say she's of a more fairer beauty than any other in the realm," he stated, watching as the boy's neck twisted to view him, a blush gracing his cheeks.

"I.." began Jon, stopping only when Barristan raised a hand instructing him to do so.

"Don't bother denying it, lad. The years may have aged me, but my sight has not yet gone. I've seen you eying her for some days now and if you were trying to do so covertly, you've failed miserably. Even at the tourney pitch, you held more interest in her than the man you squired for," commented Barristan.

Jon's face turned a deeper shade of red. His mouth opened to speak, but Barristan silenced him again with a raised hand.

"Whilst you may have no intention to inform her of your infatuation, once you take your vows, you may be tasked with her protection. You'll need to be able to mask your affections and focus on your duty," advised Barristan. "The safety of the King and his family is paramount. You mustn't forget it."

 _"Affections?"_ mumbled Jon. "I barely know her."

"But you see her beauty," quipped Barristan. "I once loved a woman from afar, and by her beauty and kind heart my will to hold true to my vows were tempted."

"Did you ever break them... Your vows?" asked Jon curiously, and Barristan couldn't tell if it was a query or a seeking of advice.

"Nay, in the end, I swore an oath and I stood by it.  Even as men sought to claim her love, I stood aside never showing her my true thoughts," he replied softly. "As will you have to when the Princess' betrothed comes for her hand."

Snow's look of aghast surprise indicated the boy knew not of the Princess' future marriage, and Barristan felt a wave of empathy for the youth in that moment.

"Betrothed?" whispered Jon.

"Aye, betrothed," confirmed Barristan, as he reached over and clapped the _'White Wolf'_ on the shoulder. "As I told you before, lad. The King has offered a many Lords a many things to make the realm a place of lasting peace."

"He gave his own sister away to appease them?" questioned Jon.

Barristan snorted at that. "Marriages bring union. Your father will do the same with your sisters when the time comes, as his father did before him when he arranged the betrothal of Lyanna Stark to Robert Baratheon."

Jon's brows came back together. "Does she love him... _her betrothed?"_

"Did your Aunt love the Black Stag?" countered Barristan, giving the boy a thin smile. "The Princess will be doing her duty to her House when she makes her vows in Baelor's Sept before the Seven, as will you when you take our Orders vows. Love is fleeting, vows are forever."

The young Knight didn't seem agreeable to his words but nodded all the same as if to accept them.

"Get your things together and fetch that wolf of yours. We should be setting off shortly if we hope to make the Gods Eye by the next moon," advised Barristan, he gave the lad a squeeze on his shoulder before parting from him. "You'll ride at my side ahead of the King's carriage. Ser Meryn and Alliser can guard the rear."

* * *

  **Jon VIII**

* * *

As the caravan ground to a halt, Jon watched as servants flooded out from wagons with baskets of food in hand, casks of wine pulled out next for the thirsty. Looking to Ser Barristan who sat mounted at his side, Jon gave the man a questioning look.  They had ridden for over a moon from Oldstones and the times they chose to break for sustenance during the day still eluded him.

"Can't ride all day on an empty gut now can you, lad?" answered Barristan jovially.  The Lord Commander dismounting his steed just as the door to the King's wheelhouse swung open and the regal figure appeared in its narrow door frame.

Jon watched intently as the Targaryen monarch covered his eyes with his forearm, no doubt his amethyst eyes having need of adjusting to the outside light.

"Intent to stretch your legs, your Grace?" Asked Barristan.

"Aye, a stroll shall serve me well," answered Rhaegar lightly. "I miss the day's you granted me the kindness of riding mine own mount on travels such as these."

"All it takes is one disgruntled lowborn with a bow to pluck you from a horse," commented Barristan.

"How you never miss a chance to inform me of my life's constant peril," quipped Rhaegar, he dropped his forearm from his face and viewed the open field before him. "A stroll shall serve me well indeed."

"As you desire, your Grace," called Barristan.  The aged Kingsguard stepped from his steed’s side only to fall silent as the King's gaze drifted past the man to where Jon sat mounted atop his steed.

"Mayhaps the Knight of Winterfell should care to join me," mused Rhaegar. "He is to be my protector by oath soon enough."

Barristan looked over his shoulder, and Jon felt the weight of both their gaze. With a slow nod, he let go of his mount's reins and used the stirrups of his saddle to balance himself as he climbed down. Ghost was quick to come pad faithfully at his side, the large beast pawing at his leg for attention. "Stay, boy."

The white direwolf heeded no such order as it passed him by to join Barristan and the King, the great animal of snow white fur nudging the King's hand with his wet snout.

"My apologies, your Grace," apologized Jon quickly, striding forward with the intention of pulling Ghost back.  He stilled at the sight of the King petting his companion's head with a few gentle strokes that ended with a scratch behind Ghost's ear.

"I believe your direwolf intends to accompany us, Ser Jon," noted Rhaegar, a chuckle escaping the man as he turned to the open plain and its cropped green grass. "Take leave and rest, Lord Commander, I shall be quite safe under the capable watch of our Northern knight, will I not, Ser Jon?"

With an expression that revealed his concerns with allowing the King to be guarded by someone as green as him, Ser Barristan conceded with a gesture for Jon to follow Rhaegar. "What are you standing around for, go on lad, protect the King."

Flustered, Jon hastily gave a nod as he went to catch up to Rhaegar and Ghost who had set off already. Ser Barristan watching after them as he stood like an old hawk on the Kingsroad.

"How fares the ride thus far, Ser?" inquired Rhaegar nonchalantly, his head cocked to the side to view Jon.

"It's been kind, I've no saddle sores as of yet," answered Jon honestly His rear did ache though but he wasn't about to tell the King that.   Nervously he looked away from the King to check for any threats lingering in wait for them ahead.

"Be at ease, Ser Jon. Despite Ser Barristan's opinion that my life is in constant peril, the truth is I have yet to have an attempt made against it," said Rhaegar, his lips pulling into a smile as Jon gave him an incredulous look. "You're nervous, aren't you?"

Jon sighed with a nod. "I've never guarded a King before."

"I'm confident you have it in you to keep me safe should harm present itself.  You're handy with a sword if memory serves me well," praised Rhaegar, the man adjusted their course toward a nearby pond.  An enormous oak tree sat on its edge, covering the water in a wide shadow from its lush plume of leaves.

"You haven't seen me with a sword, your Grace," refuted Jon hesitantly.

"Haven't I?" returned Rhaegar, stopping briefly to face Jon, head on. "I remember visiting Winterfell some years ago, and seeing a young lad, head full of dark curls training in the dead of night."

Jon's eyes grew wide. _"You remember that?"_

Rhaegar chuckled. "Had you thought I forgot?"

Chest swelling at having the King remember him, Jon scratched at the back of his neck, somewhat abashed by the revelation. "I never thought the King would remember a bastard.  Why should you have?"

Rhaegar's laughter died out, his mouth falling open and snapping closed a few times as if searching for the right words to reply.

Pitying the King for having put forward such a question, Jon looked to change the topic. "Fine day isn't it?"

Visibly easing, Rhaegar's smile came back to view. "It is. The Riverlands are a place of beauty with all its waterways, and lush vegetation. Few other kingdoms of the realm could ever dream of matching it."

Jon agreed with a nod from his perspective.  Anything but the cold frost, bleak snow, and pine trees that served as the North's scenery was a thing of beauty. "Have you been to all the Kingdoms, your Grace?" He asked, yet as it left his tongue he felt foolish for have even voiced such a dimwitted query.

_Of course, he's been to all the kingdom's, he's the King you fool._

"All but the Vale," answered Rhaegar, surprising Jon again. "I've read many a scroll and tome on the land. From written description, I know it well, but to see the mountains and the Eyrie with mine own eyes before I pass on to join my ancestors is a dream of mine."

"I had figured you had seen them all," said Jon. "... May I ask why you haven't seen it?"

"The Vale and I share a delicate relationship, more so, Lord Arryn and I share a delicate relationship, I should say," revealed Rhaegar. "Old scars don't always heal the way you would wish them to."

Jon felt Ghost brush up against him as the direwolf went to lay down in the oak tree's shade. Taking a few steps to be beneath the shade himself, he looked to the King as the man lowered himself to the ground to sit against the large trunk, his legs stretched out in contentment, feet crossed at the ankles. A question for the man lingered on his lips, but he hesitated to ask it, but Rhaegar must have noticed as he beckoned for Jon to draw closer.

"You wish to inquire why Lord Arryn and I are at odds, do you not?" instigated Rhaegar.  Jon nodded slowly in return. "You know the rebellion of old, don't you, Ser Jon?"

Instantly, a brief feeling of regret swelled in his gut for his damned curiosity, and Jon knew the coming conversation would be troublesome.  His lord father did rise up against the King and his House after all.

"I shall take your silence as confirmation," continued Rhaegar, his eyes closing. "Which means you know of the Trident I presume."

"Lord Arryn resents you for defeating the rebellion," blurted Jon, hoping to end the conversation before his father's name was brought up.

Rhaegar's eyes opened, and Jon swore the man looked sad, if not repenting. "Lord Arryn resents me for having slain Robert Baratheon. A man whom Jon Arryn saw as his own flesh and blood, a son in his eyes. And I took him from him. Lord Arryn has not found it in his heart to forgive me for it."

Jon read the sincerity in the King's visage. "... Do you... Do you seek forgiveness for Lord Robert's death?"

"I seek forgiveness for any man's life I've had to take. For all his faults in life, I don't believe Robert Baratheon to have been an evil man," answered Rhaegar solemnly. "I attempted to make amends to Lord Arryn, to console him for his loss. I even offered him a seat on my small council... He sent a man by the name of Baelish in his stead.  I've been told he and your Lord father's Lady wife were dear friends in their youth."

Jon attempted to recall the name Baelish to no avail, not that he would have recognized it since Lady Catelyn and he had never spoken in length of her upbringing, or of anything for that matter. She had chosen to ignore him, and that suited him fine.  He could accept her shunning of him, but he hated her cold, hateful remarks as they reminded him of everything that he wasn't. A true Stark. "I can't say I know of him."

"I shouldn't think you had, Baelish is not a man of splendid reputation," admitted Rhaegar, resting his head back against the bark of the tree. "Tell me, Jon, honestly. Do you resent me for having stopped the rebellion, being that you are a man of the north?"

"Your Grace?" questioned Jon.

"Your Lord father sought to end my family's rule over the realm when he chose to march alongside Robert, and Arryn," voiced Rhaegar slowly. "Do you resent me for having foiled their attempt?"

"I was told you showed my father mercy after you won the Trident, when you could have sent him to the Wall or worse," said Jon carefully, perplexed by the King’s need to know his thoughts for a war that preceded his birth. "I should be thankful, your Grace, not resentful."

"You put me at ease," breathed Rhaegar. "Your words remove an old burden of conscience from mine shoulders."

Jon felt at a loss with how to respond, his gaze drifting back to the Kingsroad where Ser Barristan's distant figure continued to keenly stand watch over them. Jon's gaze grew more focused when he caught sight of Daenerys in the company of her ladies. Her silver hair gleaming like a beacon under the high sun, the fine shine only assisting to enhance her fair, pretty face that even he could distinguish it at such a distance between them.

"A good man once in my service gave her the moniker Stormborn for the night our mother bore her from her womb," said Rhaegar suddenly, drawing Jon's focus back to the King with a blush he doubted went without notice. "I raised her as I would have mine own daughters were I given the chance to do so. Truth be told I find there are times I forget she's my sister and not my child."

Jon's brows furrowed, his blush dissipating. _"Daughters?"_

 _"Hmm?"_ Hummed Rhaegar, the man looking as though he had just woken from a dream.

"Forgive me, your Grace, it's not my place to ask," rushed Jon quickly.

"Ask what?" Questioned Rhaegar bemused.

Jon fidgeted where he stood, not even the shade of the great oak helped to quell the dew of sweat festering upon his brow. "It's just you... You said you had raised the Princess as you would have done your own _daughters_ , forgive mine query. It was foolish of me to ask you suc-"

Rhaegar exhaled a heavy breath, cutting Jon off from his apologetic rant. "It's quite alright, Ser Jon. I truly must be at ease in your company to have let it slip. You heard correct, I had one more daughter than Rhaenys, but alas, it is not something I can share freely with you as I would topics of a different nature."

Running a hand through his black locks, Jon rotated so he could look to Ghost, the white direwolf fast asleep with his large head resting on the grass.

"One of the vows of the Kingsguard is to keep the King's secrets," commented Rhaegar, bracing himself on a root of the tree, he clambered back to his feet gracefully. "I entrust you will keep this revelation to yourself."

Jon looked at the King and nodded. "I'll not speak of it to any other."

"I thank you for it," said Rhaegar, he looked to the Kingsroad and smiled faintly as Daenerys seemed to be laughing with her ladies. "Pray tell, Ser. Have you spoken with mine sister since last you two met?"

Focus darting to the King, Jon felt his chest thump with a quickened pace. "Since last, your Grace?"

"The courtyard of the Twins, or has there been more occasions I am unaware of?" inquired Rhaegar, his amethyst eyes shifting curiously to Jon.

Shaking his head, Jon ran a hand through his hair. "Nay, your Grace, twas just the once we spoke... Nor has she shown any intent to speak with me any further."

Not that it wasn't from lack of trying, they had been on the road south for over a month and he had tried countless times to draw the Princess' attention. Each time she turned her cheek to him, it was as if she were blind to his presence entirely. Even the days he and Ser Barristan were assigned to be her protectors, she hadn’t even spared a glance at him. And each time he failed to gain her attention, Jon became a little more bitter. _Was her note meaningless? Was she only interested in speaking with him when she had learned he was destined for the Wall? Was she upset by his decision to serve her brother instead of revealing to her by letter the thoughts of other Night's Watchmen regarding her Great-Uncle?_

Lips curving into a frown as his mind delved deeper, Jon snapped to as the King emitted a heavy sigh.

"Mine sister is of a free spirit. Much like the untamed she-wolves House Stark is said to have had from days past," commented Rhaegar.  He clasped his hands together behind his back and fixed Jon with a curious look.

" _A free spirit betrothed,"_ murmured Jon quietly beneath his breath.

Rhaegar looked inquisitive for a moment before it was smothered by a look of indifference. "Had you ever hoped to wed, Ser?"

Jon's brows lifted at the question. "Your Grace?"

"Did you ever think to take a wife?" asked the King once more.

"... Nay, your Grace," answered Jon slowly.  It was true for the most part. After having decided to be a man of the Night's Watch, how could he have wed?

"And if one were arranged for you, would you have carried through with it? Do as expected of you?" inquired Rhaegar.

"If my Lord father had sought it, I would have." answered Jon, shaking his head in confusion.

The King nodded, and Jon saw a sadness in his eyes.

"I once wed for duty, but I longed to wed for love," whispered Rhaegar, his amethyst orbs staring transfixed on his sister. "Now I have my siblings to wed for duty rather than love. Mayhaps it's to be a cycle. One generation forcing the next..."

As the King's words drifted off to silence, Jon had a feeling the man would have allowed his siblings an alternate fate had things not been different. As Ser Barristan had said ' _The King has offered a many Lords a many things to make the realm a place of lasting peace.'_

There was tense silence between them before the King broke it. Breaking his hands from the clasp behind his back, he looked out to Ser Barristan.

"I suppose we best return to the roadway before the Lord Commander loses his wits about him," noted Rhaegar.  He reached for the bottom hem of his black doublet and gave it a tug down to straighten out his appearance.

"As you will," Jon agreed, he started to follow the King back only to stop and turn as he remembered his dear friend lazing in the shade. "Ghost, to me!"

The growing beast already bigger than any dog Jon had ever seen raised up, and begrudgingly left its shaded resting spot to join him and the King. Ruffling Ghost's thick fur with one hand, he watched the King walk away.

A King he was quickly coming to admire with all the more time spent in his company. Unlike his father, uncle and even Ser Barristan who had continued to call him lad and boy, the King called him by name or title. It was a showing of respect Jon had not known from any other, and it pleased him more than it should.

Mayhaps this was how Arya felt that day she enthusiastically told him the King was to attend Robb's wedding. Was Rhaegar Targaryen truly what the tales made him out to be? _Kind? Just?_

 _Then again, there was his abduction of Aunt Lyanna, and his subconscious told him he shouldn't trust the King to be good so soon... As, of course, he accepted a position sworn to keep the man safe, where was the contradiction in that? Protect the man’s life, but don’t trust or respect him._ His head throbbed with the predicament.

* * *

  **Daenerys V & Jon IX**

* * *

How many sunrises had come and gone since departing the Twins were lost to Daenerys. All she knew for certain was she hated being stuck in a wheelhouse with no one but her brother for company. As much as she loved her brother, he had been far from an entertaining companion. For fortnight's her regal brother sat across from her in the carriage lost in a daze of his own mind, his replies to her queries of him were but one-word quips that were less than informative.

Each day spent on the Kingsroad seemed longer than the last, the days seemed to drag on as endlessly as the road they traversed over. She often wondered what her friends and ladies were up to as they rode in a carriage elsewhere along the progression, no doubt laughing and enjoying themselves. In the evening's, or whenever they stopped for rest she would rejoin them, soaking in their companionship for the joy it brought her. Even their good-natured jibes made to flush her cheeks a cherry red she found herself enjoying, which was far from her usual opinion of such banter.

This evening, however, as they made camp for the night on the outskirts of the small village of Brindlewood, she looked for no company but the pleasant silent company of her own self. With a cool evening breeze rippling over the land, she watched with a smile as men hurried to pitch the tents. Guards patrolling the camp perimeter as her own guard, the thin-lipped, Ser Alliser shadowed her every step, giving leave to Ser Barristan and his dark-haired Northern Knight.

As if the thought of him had summoned the said man, Daenerys came to an abrupt stop as she spotted the Bastard Knight of Winterfell sitting atop a boulder in the near distance, the singing of steel sounding off as he dragged a whetstone along the edge of his sword. She had pondered when a moment such as this would arise, every day.  It was a possibility as she saw him on the road, the nights they made camp, the stops for sustenance at midday. So many opportunities, yet none she had taken to speak with him. After Rhaegar had expressed his disapproval at the Twins for her associating with him, she maintained her distance as much as her curiosity willed her to learn more of the northerner.

She had figured after learning Jon had taken the comfort of a lady of the night the curiosity for the brooding man would wane as she returned south and him north to the Wall. Though it didn't happen, but instead she had woken up the day after her humiliating experience on the tourney grounds only to discover from her ladies, Rhaegar had offered the freshly made Knight a place on his Kingsguard. So much for the distance being the cure to the plague that was Jon Snow. To stop the spread of his infection in her mind she had resorted to making her own distance, finding it easier to ignore his presence than deal with it, deal with the mystery of him, _deal with his handsome long face, stark grey eyes, full pouty lips-_

Shaking her head, Daenerys huffed at how easy the mere memory of him made her travel from the present. Mayhaps avoiding him wasn't the cure, mayhaps she need face him head on, mayhaps if she eliminated the mystery that cloaked him, he would finally be as uninteresting as her brother's other Kingsguard Knights. This evening was providing her with the perfect opportunity in the cloak of darkness, amiss from prying eyes besides those of Ser Alliser Thorne. Garnering the courage to approach the man after beckoning Ser Alliser for privacy- the Kingsguard reluctantly allowing for a few pace difference between them- Daenerys approached Jon with a light step in her foot.

She felt a nervous, giddy swirl in her stomach as he looked up to see her, those steely grey eyes peering at her with a flummoxed expression. She faltered in her footing, but pushed on till she came before him. Dressed in his dark tunic and black leather jerkin, she noticed the warmer weather of the south having caused him to ditch his fur-trimmed cloak in a heap at the foot of the boulder where his direwolf lay in crescent curl. The great beast of myth and it's white fur looking strikingly beautiful beneath the moon's glow.

"Princess," he greeted, a slight tremble of nerves in his voice as he made to get up and bow.

Reaching out, Daenerys braced a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated. "Please, remain as you were."

Reluctantly, Jon did as bid, easing back onto the rock. His face remained a guarded shield of unreadable blankness, unwilling to show her his emotion.

"A tad late to be walking the camp, nay?" asked Jon suddenly.

"A tad late to be sharpening one's sword, nay?" she countered, pleased with herself when his lips twisted into a wry smile. Pleased that she caused such an expression to form on his usually straight-faced visage. "I enjoy late night strolls, it gives me the luxury of time to think."

" _Think?_ Is there something that troubles you?" He inquired.

Daenerys thought for a moment, weighing a response that wouldn't indulge him knowing that it was, in fact, him that plagued her waking thoughts. "There are a many things on my mind that trouble me, Jon Snow, _but I shan't be sharing them with you_."

Jon's smile fell. "... Why is it you've come to speak with me then?"

"Well, don't you think highly of yourself. Did it not occur to you that I might have just been walking aimlessly and came upon you?" She teased, gleeful when he ducked his head down, _was he blushing?_

"I didn't mean to presume..." Jon began, stopping short when he heard her laugh. "You're making a jest at me."

"It's what many do to lighten a conversation," replied Daenerys lightly. "Do all men of the North brood as you do? Is enjoyment and happiness a thing of myth where you hail from? Or are such emotions similar to that of grumpkins and children of the forest?"

Jon shook his head, looking up to meet her gaze, the pace of her heart quickening. "There's joy in the north... As for the _brooding,_ I'm told I do it often. I suppose it can't be helped."

"I beg to differ, I was told you had the comfort of a woman at the Twins.  Surely she was capable in having stopped your brooding," noted Daenerys. There was sarcasm interwoven to her words she couldn't stop from coming out.

Eyes growing wide, Jon shook his head fervently, recalling the day before the Tourney started that one of her ladies came upon him in the company of Theon, Robb and Ros. "No, no, I wasn't-"

"There's no point denying it, it's fine. My brother is said to frequent the brothels in King's Landing," cut-in Daenerys simply, though her tone betrayed her wish to come off as nonchalant to his whoring.

 _"The King?"_ voiced Jon in surprise.

Daenerys looked momentarily confused before realizing she hadn't clarified which brother.

"Oh nay, not Rhaegar. _He'd never_... I was speaking about Viserys."

"Oh," mumbled Jon, the King never spoke much about the Crown Prince, if at all, like he nearly forgot the man existed.

"Will you frequent them?" She asked in the silence that followed, unable to quell the unexplainable need to know if he planned to take women to bed.

" _Brothels?_ Nay, of course not," stammered Jon quickly, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His face burning red hot. A part of him wanted her to think he was experienced as Theon was in the state of sexual prowess, but the values his father installed in him for expressing honesty killed that notion. "And I'll be in the service of the King, sworn to a vow of chastity..."

Daenerys' head was thrown back with a laugh. Her giggle sounding off like an orchestra of the realm's finest musicians to Jon's ears, hating when she managed to control herself once more and silence the musical mirth.

"Are you having another jest at my expense?" he asked.

She shook her head with, a smile still on display across her lips. "You do realize vows are just words, don't you? I can name a few Kingsguard from history who said some words to a King and still took women to bed at their fancy."

Jon's lips thinned. "... They may be words, but where I come from, your word is your bond. When you give your word, it's meant to mean something, nay, it means everything.our reputation is based on it. _Your honour_."

The smile Daenerys bore receded. The only man she had ever met that was capable of swearing to an oath to keep chaste was Ser Barristan, but even then, the man was aged and no longer seeming fit for the making love to womanly flesh. "You would honestly forsake the chance to lay with another woman ever again for the sake of honour?"

With a grimace coming to view, Jon grumbled out his reply. "I've... I've never been with a woman."

Daenerys scoffed disbelievingly. "There's no need to lie."

"I'm not," insisted Jon, exhaling a sigh. "That day at the Twins your Lady delivered your message, Robb was insistent that I lay with a woman before I went to the Wall to take the black... You swear an oath of chastity there as well you see..."

There was a hopefulness she felt at his omission, though she dared not tell him that. "So you didn't..."

"Nay, I didn't," he answered, knowing where her lingering question was directed to go.

 _"Why didn't you?"_ Daenerys asked curiously.

Jon furrowed his brow, absentmindedly he continued to run the whetstone along his blade. "It didn't seem right... Nay, that's not true... I..." he groaned. _"Others take me_ , why are you asking me this?"

Daenerys looked away _. Why was she asking? Did she hope to hear he didn't do it for her?_

Jon fidgeted beneath her silence, reluctantly he felt compelled by it to answer. "I couldn't help but think I might birth a child... Another bastard to be slighted by the world. I couldn't bring myself to do it. To be cause to another child's misery."

"I see," she murmured softly, albeit a bit disappointed. "Is that why you're so determined to join an order that calls for chastity? The Night's Watch, now the Kingsguard... Why didn't you just become a Maester?"

Jon's hand stilled with the whetstone. "That's not why," he paused mid-sentence, looking to change the topic that captivated his sexual desires and his hopes. "May I ask you a question, Princess?"

Wary of what might be asked, Daenerys was overcome by the incessant curiosity he provoked in her.  She approved his request with a slight nod.

"We've been travelling together for some moons now. I had hoped to speak with you and thank you for the message your Lady gave me," started Jon, as he huffed a breath, hoping direly his question didn't come off as whingeing. "Have you been avoiding me?"

It was Daenerys' time to fidget uneasily. "... Aye, I have."

Jon's disappointment at her response was evident as he bowed his head once again, resuming the sharpening of his sword, a little rougher than was probably necessary. She felt the need to explain, rid him of the evident disappointment he felt.

"Are you upset by that?" she asked.

Jon shook his head, refusing to look up. "Lady Catelyn refused to let me sit at the head table during feasts... It doesn't upset me to know a Princess doesn't want to be seen fraternizing with a bastard."

 _Did he actually think that low of her to truly believe she had avoided him simply for his father's infidelity?_ She thought bitingly. Her arms came to fold up over her chest. "I didn't speak to you because you're a bastard, Jon Snow. I told you before that doesn't matter to me. I didn't talk you because you embarrassed me," she divulged, holding back the part of her having thought he had taken a whore to bed.

"Embarrassed you?" Jon mumbled, at last looking up. He had suspected on the eve of departing the Twins that his actions at the tourney could have charged her with this motive to ignore him, but he had pushed it aside as overthinking. How astute he truly was for once.

"You crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney, the last thing I could have ever wanted, then having Rhaegar take it away as they all watched," she rambled, her voice rising, drawing the narrowed gaze of Ser Alliser. "Why did you do that?  You know just as well as everyone else there that Roslin Frey should have been crowned."

Jon flinched, since her thoughts on the event had never registered to him, nor her feelings. "I didn't intend to embarrass you.  I apologize if I did."

"What did you intend by it?" she asked then, holding up a hand to stall her watcher who sought to intervene.

"I..." he faltered in his wording, thinking it cruel to express his true intention for her crowning.  Was it better he told her the truth that he had done it out of malice, or lie and say he did it out of recognition for her obvious beauty. _Or was the lie the truth?_

Daenerys sucked in her bottom lip as the anticipation for his answer held her on edge, her subconscious wanted an answer that would be pleasing, but Jon Snow had thus far been displeasing in his replies. Finally, she couldn't hold out any longer. "Do you think me beautiful?"

Jon's mouth fell agape. Cursing himself inwardly as the truth nagged at him, why couldn't he just lie? Why couldn't he just say something to make her smile, like Theon.  The heir to Pyke known to do it so well you couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or not, and Jon was a bastard, no one held him to a higher standard but himself. "There is no question of your beauty, Princess, but I... I did not crown you for the obvious."

Daenerys felt her face heat up as he acknowledged that he thought her beautiful, but the blush didn't grace her for long for his last spoken words held her on edge once more. "Why did you crown me then?"

Jon sighed, running a hand through his black locks. "Does it truly matter?"

"It does," she stated, firm on wanting to know his reasoning behind the act.

"I did it to spite Ser Meryn," Jon revealed gruffly. "He had insinuated to the King that I had tried to defile you the evening he killed mine sister's direwolf... I wanted to spite him, rub the crowning of you as Queen of love and beauty in his face... Hurt him like he had my sister."

Daenerys heart sank. She should have known it was a part of his scheme to get back at Meryn Trant, but why then did it hurt so much to know it? She wasn't the type to care of something so trivial, yet she couldn't shake the wanting feeling of him to like her. She needed to stop this, she needed to quit letting these frazzled thoughts of something more between them enter her naive head. There could be nothing more between them, he a bastard destined to take a vow chastity he wouldn't break on word of his honour, and she a Princess, awaiting the day she was to marry the match destined to her by her brother.

Thinning her plush lips to a thin line, she took a step back from Jon with downcast eyes.

"I'm sorry," ventured Jon, hoping to garner her forgiveness. Her dejected appearance made his chest ache. "I didn't intend-"

"You don't _intend,_ to do a lot of things, do you, _Jon Snow_ ," quipped Daenerys sharply, amethyst eyes meeting grey. "As pleasant as this was, I must take my leave. The night grows late."

Jon blew a disgruntled breath, nodding in understanding, his gaze drifting to the foot of the boulder as he saw Ghost begin to stir. Hiding his shame for having been so truthful in the moment it had slighted her. "Of course, my Princess."

She turned then, not even stopping to inform her watcher that she looked to retire. Ser Alliser traced after her, the man not missing a step in his duties.

* * *

  **Jon X**

* * *

Looking to the sun as it crept beneath the edge of the horizon, Jon shook his head, feeling stuck in an endless loop of waking, sparring, breaking camp, riding till dusk, and making camp. The travel from the Twins had taken some moons now, and despite Ser Barristan's reassurances that the capital wasn't far off, Jon had started to doubt the man.

Believing they were soon to halt their march and make camp once more, Jon felt a whoosh of energy return to him as he saw the sparkle of light in the distance. The darkening sky was casting an ominous shadow of a vast metropolis. It was larger than any settlement Jon had ever seen, lights shining at one end of what he presumed to be King's Landing seemed to glitter for leagues till it ended at a silhouette of an enormous keep that towered over the city atop a hill.

His childlike awe was hastily disrupted by a disgruntled snort at his side. Lips pursed, he shifted in his saddle to view Ser Alliser Thorne, the man's white cloak cascading from his shoulders over the rear of his palfrey mount. His dark, sable eyes peering back at him with some form of distaste.

Jon stared back. It was the first time in the journey south he was made to ride at the side of someone other than Ser Barristan, and while Jon was thankful that he hadn't been made to ride at Ser Meryn’s side, he had come to wonder if he would have preferred Trant to Thorne. At least Trant had come to ignore his existence.  Thorne, on the other hand, held no restraint in his showing of dislike for Jon.

With short quips and sneered replies, Ser Alliser truly despised him. And for what reason had spurned the man's anger, Jon wasn't to know. Though in honesty, Jon couldn't find it within himself to care either. It wasn't the first time he had been hated, nor did he think Thorne to be the last man to think of him as such.

"Need you a handkerchief, Ser?" Questioned Jon, his suppressed annoyance coming to surface.

Black eyes narrowed into venomous slits, Ser Alliser shot Jon a bemused look.

"You've been snorting, and huffing.  Might you need a handkerchief?" repeated Jon, his flat tone of voice giving off the impression of utmost seriousness.

"Being smart, are you?" Snapped Alliser.

"If it puts an end to your insufferable grunts then, by all means, I am," returned Jon evenly.

Alliser glowered for a moment. "Bastard of a great House, you must be unfamiliar with someone not nose deep in your arse to kiss it."

Jon gritted his teeth. "You think me spoiled, is that it? Is that why you seeth so?"

"I seeth for I'm to be the sworn brother of an undeserving twat from the North whom the King's been taken with," growled Alliser, his eyes looked Jon over. "Mayhaps it's your pretty hair the King likes so much. Green lad such as yourself certainly didn't get made such an offer for his skill with the sword. Come now, _Ser Snow_ , regale me with what great battles you've partaken in? What deeds have made you renowned?"

"You don't know my skill with steel in hand, Ser, but I welcome you to test my martial," responded Jon gruffly.

"Oh, I've seen you, _Ser Snow,"_ said Alliser, ignoring the offer to test him. "Think I've not been watching you with the Lord Commander? Ser Barristan truly is bold if he thinks to make a true Knight of you."

Jon felt his fingers tighten around the leather straps of his mount's reins. "So it's my youth then, that's to be the cause of your hatred?"

"It's been years since old Willem Darry died, _years_ and his position never filled. Good men of honour and skill passed over by King, better men than Ned Stark's lesser litter," shot Alliser. "You've more right to being a cupbearer than a Kingsguard, and you'd be a fool to think otherwise."

Resisting the dire urge to swipe the haughty look from the humourless man's face at his side, Jon turned his focus back to the road ahead and the city that loomed in the darkness before him. His eyes were drawn to the shadow of the Red Keep with its large halls and towers that reached up to the stars. The place in which his Uncle and Grandfather had perished at hands of the Mad King, the place in which his life would be dedicated to in the service of that same King's son.

The thought made his chest squeeze with the sensation of pitying guilt as the realization dawned on him as to why his father had been so cold in their farewell at the Twins. He had accepted a position to protect the very House that had exacted so much pain and suffering from his Lord father. Still, he couldn't bring himself to hate the King and his sister for their father's past misgivings, even King Rhaegar's misgivings.

He had never met the Mad King or been alive when Rhaegar swept Lyanna Stark from the North, and while tales of the dead King Aerys were told in great anger in the north, those tales didn't influence his opinion on the soft-spoken King he had traded words with or the kind Princess who had wormed her way into his thoughts.

The members of House Targaryen he had come to know weren’t what he had learned growing up. Mayhaps tales of old were in fact just old tales, tales told by old men with no true understanding or knowledge of the events they spoke of. The stories warped and changed as they passed by word of mouth tell it was nothing more than lies.

Squaring his shoulders, Jon vowed to himself he wouldn't be led astray by men who saw him as lesser than themselves, or by word and tales he couldn't verify himself. His path in life would be his own, his judgment of others based on their actions not reputations that preceded them. He was no longer the Bastard of Winterfell under his father's thumb. He was his own man. _The White Wolf of the North._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My descriptive abilities started lacking at parts of this chapter which I may go back at some point and edit. But for the sake of translating the passing of time I broke the journey to four segments, and in case I failed to adequately represent where they were. Barristan (Oldstones) Jon and Rhaegar (Near the Gods Eye) Dany and Jon (Outskirts of Brindlewood, North of King's Landing) Alliser and Jon (Nearing King's Landing). 
> 
> Why that is important to me to let you all know that... I don't know. Don't ask me. lol.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, please leave some feedback if you enjoyed! And until next time everyone, take care and be safe!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, kudos and bookmark if you are intrigued. If you're wondering why Robb and Roslin are made to wed, I'll make it clear in the Prelude, but for craps and giggles, Lord Walder Frey arrives late to the Trident, and upon hearing of Rhaegar's victory, captures a fleeing Hoster Tully. With bad blood between that man and his bannerman, Rhaegar gives a Frey as hostage to Hoster and has Ned Stark betroth Robb to the Frey's in order to bring some peace and unity to the Riverlands through the connection of Catelyn. Like I said, Prelude will clear it up better. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts and have a wonderful day!


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